Before

My husband and I each cut 10 inches of hair off our heads. And we still have what most of mainstream society would call long hair. So, how do we feel about being shorn?

In a word? Lighter.

Last night, we shuffled off our two older children onto a friend (thanks, Jessica!) so that we could get haircuts and a few hours without having to juggle ALL of our children. Allen and I made it to Salon Cu in Ball Square, Somerville, right on time for our appointment. We were blessed last minute by a visit from our friend, Erica, who helped watch the baby, take photos, and cheered us on.

It took about 5 minutes for my stylist, Jackie, to brush out my hip-length hair, mark the length to cut, braid the hair below the mark, and cut.  Five minutes to cut off hair that I’d been ignoring and half-assedly grooming for years. I immediately felt as though a headache that had been nagging me for years was suddenly lifted.

The cut!

Jackie placed the braid on the shelf in front of me and proceeded to cut and style my hair, cutting in long layers. It’s now a little longer than shoulder-length, lying just above my bra-strap. She then spent about 30 minutes drying and shaping my hair with a round brush while I tried not to giggle with all the attention my much neglected hair was getting. It’s not like it will ever look this good ever again. I own a hairdryer for one reason: to blow up air mattresses.

Allen, pre-cut

Allen has had thinning hair on top for a few years now, and he’s been struggling with the idea of cutting his hair ALL OFF and going with the bald look. I’ve been lobbying on behalf of his hair for years. Because I love his long hair. He decided to listen to the stylist’s advice to go shorter and cut layers in. Thank the gods.

His hair is now above his shoulders, and it’s taken a lot of weight off his scalp. I was afraid it would end up being a page boy kind of cut, and he’d have to get a nose piercing and a facial tattoo to keep his weirdo cred, but he’s looking good. He’s still rocking the tall, long-haired hippie freak/geek vibe.

Allen, de-ponytailed!

We both endured the coiffing that comes at the end of a haircut from a real salon, trying to be patient while our awesome stylists played with our hair and made it do gorgeous things like be flippy and light as air and move in ways not natural to our hair. It’s fun to be pampered. And there was one very not happy Rockstar, wailing in the background as my stylist was finishing up. He caught a glimpse of me and remembered that he hadn’t eaten in hours.  So, I flipped my hair around a bit, rescued the sad boy from the very tired arms of the ever-patient Erica, and nursed him in the lobby while we waited for Allen.

A couple of coiffed hippies (front view)

All in all, we lost 20 inches of hair between us. We feel lighter and slightly more contemporary. To celebrate, we brought Erica along and had dinner at The Boston Burger Company in Davis Square, where we sat at the table by the front window, flipping our hair around like divas and grinning like idiots.

Allen has showered this morning, and his hair is looking much more normal, with some natural curl and messiness instead of the coiffed look of last night. He looks much more like himself. I like the messy look. As for me, well, I think I’ll go with the styled look for at least one more day. My hair feels like silk! And I want to flip it around some more and play the role of a more put-together woman.

Tomorrow, I’ll go back to the regular, messy-haired me!

Christmas 2006, Kelsey with her new bike!

I’ve been carrying a 15/16″ wrench in my back pocket for 3.5 years now.

It’s just this thing I do, whenever I take the kids for a bike ride. Most times, Kelsey and Laurel will get on their training-wheel-equipped bicycles, and I’ll tag along behind them on foot (my bike is QUITE BROKEN). And when we get to a perfect space for safe biking, I’ll ask if either child wants me to take off the training wheels. It’s always been a no-go, and that’s OK

Last Thursday, I finally got a positive response.

I’m not sure if I’m old-fashioned or cutting-edge when it comes to many parenting decisions. Probably the former. I like to respond to my kids’ needs in ways that feel natural to me. Maybe I’m just lazy. But I believe, for the most part, in reaching developmental milestones in a child-led fashion. Because, honestly, if they aren’t invested in succeeding, what’s the point? Potty training Kelsey at 29 months happened the same way. Laurel weaning at 26 months happened likewise. When they are ready–that’s the time to TRY. Right? If I pushed my kids to achieve bike riding or reading early or tight-rope walking before they are developmentally and psychologically ready, am I doing that for bragging rights? Because I haven’t noticed any awards being given out to kids for early milestone achievement.

Kelsey got her bike right before her 5th birthday. And she has enjoyed riding it with training wheels ever since. But last week, she was ready. She took a deep breath, looked me in the eye, and said with her most I’m-being-courageous voice, “You can take off my training wheels.”

Kelsey with her bike minus training wheels, July 29, 2010

So, I did what every parent does. I pushed her a few times, never letting go. I ran alongside her, balancing her on the bike while she got the feel of balancing. She knew I wouldn’t let go. And then she tried taking off a few times by herself. Finally, she felt ready to go solo, so she asked me to give her a push. And I did. And she rode her bike about 30 yards before putting down her feet and stopping, all flushed with pride, looking back at me with surprise and excitement in her face.

To say she was ready is such an understatement. She is 8.5 years old. She’s been riding her scooter for 2 years with poise and balance. She did brilliantly on the bike, pedaling and balancing, feeling more confident with each revolution of her wheels.

And when she was tired, she asked me to put the training wheels back on so that she could bike home safely. And I did. I’m hoping that the next time we go biking, she’ll want to keep the training wheels off. Because it’s so much more fun! If she doesn’t, if she wants to keep them on, that’s fine too.

The weight of that steel wrench in my back left pocket feels rather like an old friend anyway.

Kelsey at 4 days' old. Me... a lot less gray!

Apparently, I need to say something TODAY on my website, or else post something tomorrow and futz with the date settings to make it look like I posted today! Because I can do that. I have the power. See that Twitter feed over there? I did that. I have some skillz. You may bow to my awesome now. *waits*

Anyway, this July, I celebrate the anniversary of my 100th month of parenting, and also my 100th month of non-consecutive-seldom-updated-oh-wait-I-have-a-blog? BLOGGING ABOUT PARENTING!! I put my first post up on my shiny new blog–which lived at the very ingeniously named URL “www.kelsey.thunderdog.com”– on March 18th, 2002. Want to read it? It is here. Feel free to go through the archives if you want to follow my insanity from its messy origins!

This website has been a labor of love for me for more than 8 years. We’ve gone through a number of website names: kelsey.thunderdog, kids.thunderdog, The Adventures of Kelsey and Laurel, ROAR, Dancing Stars, and finally MotherMirth. Allen Holt (who also has his own blog, and it is AWESOME!) has been my co-conspirator, my cheerleader, my pillar of support all these years. And he still likes me! Wow. I think I’ll keep him.

Thank you, readers. Without you, I… well, I’d still be writing here because I need the catharsis, but I would be just talking to myself. And thank you to my 3 amazingly wonderful children, who continue to do funny and interesting things to make me think, laugh, and cry. I adore you.

To get a fresh start on the NEXT 100 months of blogging, tell me what you like to read. What are your favorite posts/subjects? Want more photos? What do you like and NOT like about the site redesign? Talk to me!

Andrew has cut his first tooth. I shall call it Rocky. We’re playing the “If you bite my nipple with your pointy little new tooth, I will suffocate you!” game. So far, I’m the winner.

Rocky would like a cookie. So maybe Andrew and I will have a *HealthyTimes Maple Biscuit. Cuz they are yummy for babies. And their mothers.

*No, I’m not endorsing this product. Unless they want to send me money?

Today, my son became mobile. He rotated his body 45 degrees in place counter-clockwise in about 15 minutes on his playmat while I was doing laundry. Earlier, he did a 90 degree turn in the time it took me to shower. So, is it time to hire contractors and spend a fortune making my apartment baby-safe? Or should I just put away my dust bunny collection and hide the steak knives?

The answer lies somewhere in the middle. There’s an entire industry born out of some well-meaning parenting advocates who advise you to prepare your house for this stage of baby-hood.

Like most experienced parents, I find it disconcerting when my baby all of a sudden appears in a different place than the place where I put him down. Even if it’s only a change of direction, it’s that first sign that OMG, THINGS WILL BE DIFFERENT FROM NOW ON. I distinctly remember parenting my first child, and how excited I was at this turn of events. And then the paranoia set in. I quickly searched online for advice and then made a hasty trip to the store to buy drawer locks, window locks, baby gates, electrical outlet safety covers, and oven locks. Most of which just sat in a bag (except the baby gates) and collected dust because I discovered that I’m not the kind of parent to make my house baby-safe and then leave a mobile baby in a room, alone.

The experts advise fireplace guards! Table bumpers! Covers on all your electrical outlets! Cord shorteners! Furniture straps! Drawer locks! Gates! The case they are making is that your house shouldn’t be a danger zone for a baby. And whereas I agree with this in part, I’m not allowed to put that many holes in my rental home, and I couldn’t afford to make every single corner/drawer/cord/table safe for the little one, who will just as likely trip over his own toes and end up with a banged head anyway. What I can do is be vigilant. And do some basic preparation.

I don’t worry overly much about keeping a spotless house. Crawling babies make good dust mops! But I do try to sweep up the crumbs and dropped food. Hey, I have school-age kids, so my house is NOT clean!  I’ll need to do some preparation for my soon-to-be mobile baby. But I’m not freaking out about it. Honestly, unless you store toxic chemicals under the sink, furnish your home with unstable/fragile antique collectibles, or collect glass shards on a low shelf, your baby will be OK with the logical basics of home safety:

• Get a baby gate for the stairs.
• Make sure you have a play yard/playpen/safe place to confine him short-term so you can use the bathroom/answer the phone/make dinner.
• Move the cleaning fluids and medicines to an out of reach cabinet.
• Move anything heavy that could fall over onto a baby who pulls up.
• Make sure the book racks/bureaus are secured to a wall.
• Put the breakables out of reach.
• Locate and put away the choke-ables!

Mobile babies find all kinds of things to get into. So, make it safe for him to explore. I can’t stress enough that the BEST LINE OF DEFENSE is to be vigilant. When you are home with the baby, be nearby so that he can explore safely.

Is your baby going to bang his head on the table? Of course. Will he close his fingers in a drawer? Most likely. Do we want to deny him this experience? Umm… no. Babies learn from experience. Natural consequences teach valuable lessons. It sucks when your baby has a boo boo, yes. But covering your house in styrofoam and your baby in bubble wrap isn’t an option. He’s going to hurt himself at some point. Try to make that experience as minimal as you can, sure.

So, leave the pots and pans in their drawer/shelf. But move the glass covers. Leave the plastic mixing bowls within his reach, but move the porcelain/glass ones. These things quickly become THE BEST TOYS EVER.  Let him find safe ways to explore. Give him a drawer where some big metal spoons, measuring cups, and other non-pointy cooking utensils live. Put the antique books on higher shelves, and HIS books on the lower shelves. Crawl around your own house and see what YOU would get into. And make it safe. You don’t need to spend a fortune. Just use your head.

Once upon a time, there was this girl. And she had a plan. For her third and final childbirth, she would have another easy, natural, unmedicated, uncomplicated childbirth.

Life, aka the universe, aka destiny, aka the great cosmic unknown, aka the gods, aka God with a capital G, (choose whichever you like, as your beliefs dictate) however, had a lesson to teach. It’s one our girl is familiar with, and it goes something like this: no matter how you plan or how much control you think you have over a situation, that situation has a life of its own, and events will unfurl as they will, so prepare to let go and let it happen.

So, I didn’t get the birth I wanted. But does it really matter, in the end? The outcome is good. There is a baby, and he is lying beside me, cranky because I stopped feeding him and put him down. He is beautiful.

Oh, but you want the details? OK. Read on.

For two weeks, I had prodromal labor. I would have contractions for hours on end daily that would gradually stall out. We ended up in the hospital twice with regular, timed contractions, only to be sent home because my body wasn’t dilating. Prior to the third trip to the hospital, the contractions were stronger than ever, for a longer, more consistent time. So, off we went to the hospital Monday morning around 4:30am. The midwives decided to keep me, as I was 2-3 centimeters dilated. So, I was admitted at 5am. I labored on my feet or sitting, in Allen’s arms, for most of that day. And when checked, was disappointed to hear that no dilation had happened in that time. I was failing to progress. I tried not to take this personally. Theories abounded, such as the fact that his head had never descended, that his presentation was posterior. That my body wasn’t producing enough oxytocin to do the job of dilating. Although it wasn’t in the plan, we acquiesced to receiving help and I was started on pitocin to get things moving.

Contractions got stronger, and still no dilation. I was having excruciatingly painful back labor. And yet no progress toward birth was happening. The baby’s head was still out of reach. No effacement. All those things that can be measured showed no change. My body was in hard labor, but my labor wasn’t moving toward birth.

Finally, it was decided that breaking the water would move things along.

It didn’t.

To further complicate matters, it was observed that the baby’s heartbeat became erratic whenever I had a strong contraction. For the sake of the baby, I was asked to labor horizontally. There was fear that the umbilical cord was prolapsed, so whenever the heartbeat dropped too low, I was turned to the other side.

Many hours of torture ensued. Fourteen hours after being admitted to Labor & Delivery, and feeling near the end of my pain tolerance, I asked for help. I hesitatingly submitted to the epidural, even though I knew it was unlikely to provide much relief, having tried this before during the birth of my first child. But I did get relief. Three hours of mostly-numb recharging. The left side of my body never got numb, but the edge was taken off. And then the pain returned. Doubly painful. And then the midwives talked to us about our options.

As long as the baby’s heartbeat continued to be stable, I could continue to move toward having a vaginal delivery. But I had to remain horizontal. Thanks to the pitocin administered earlier, I was now 5 cm dilated. Half-way there. When there was no change hours later, we had to make a decision. The midwife had a plan. She suggested a gradual increase in pitocin to get my cervix dilated so that birth could happen, as it was clear that my body wasn’t going to progress on its own. But so gradual that it wouldn’t affect the baby’s heartbeat. If it started to, it would be discontinued, and we’d have to consider a cesarean birth. We agree.

The pitocin is increased gradually. The pain relief is gone. Hours pass. The back labor in horizontal position is having its effect, breaking down my willpower. Another pow-wow with the midwife, and one tired woman asks for professional advice as to what to do. The midwife suggests a new epidural, and (with close observation of baby’s heartbeat) increasing the pitocin to, as quickly as possible, get the cervix dilated. If this doesn’t work, that other option will have to be considered. It’s now been 18 hours since admittance. The second epidural is administered. The pain relief comes soon after. Blessed respite. But the clock is ticking, so the pitocin is increased dramatically.

The baby’s heartbeat is strong, to our great relief. Three more hours pass, and I drop off for little naps here and there between contractions, awaking fully to pain on my left side, which is still not numb.  Then, the last of the pain relief dissipates. I endure hard labor contractions for about two more hours, fighting the desire to push. The midwife checks my progress and says “30 more minutes.” I breathe through the most excruciating pain of my life. Another hour passes. And finally, there is no more holding back. The midwife arrives, and the final check results in the best news ever. I am finally dilated and effaced enough for birth, although the baby remains out of full engagement.

The midwife sounds doubtful that I can push the baby out, since so much pain medication was pumped into me. She thinks I am numb and unable to push. “Do you remember how to push, how you pushed out your girls?” she asks. I don’t answer. I just push. I try to communicate that there is no pain relief, that I feel everything. But I’m also a little out of it with pain and resting between contractions. Her next question, I can hear the doubt in her voice. “Do you feel like you’re making progress?” I don’t need to answer this question. I just need to push out my child. I do so in less than 5 minutes, with three  contractions and some heroic pushes using every bit of energy and willpower I have left, to the cheers of my amazed and amazing husband, who hasn’t left my side for the entire 24 hours.

He is born at 5:48 am on his estimated due date—October 20, with a full head of hair.  8lb, 9oz, 22 inches long. Perfect.

I am up and walking 30 minutes later, and we are transferred to recovery. I shower and get dressed, and our first visitors arrive a few hours later to meet our son.

For more photos, go here.

I was FINE preparing to say goodbye to my little girl, standing patiently in line awaiting the bell on her first day of all-day Kindergarten today. And I would have remained fine, pregnancy hormones and all, had it not been for her very sweet and well-meaning but somewhat sadistic teacher. I was handed a little memento of this first momentous day. –>

As Laurel walked confidently away from me in her shiny new black shoes, a bouncing, smiling girl in all pink, her red hair glistening in the sun, the tears started sliding down my face. I took some photos, and she looked back once to give me the thumbs up. I waved and faked a smile. And then turned to Allen, who was there just in time after seeing Kelsey off, to bury my sobbing, sniffling face into his awaiting shoulder.

I had prepared to do the happy dance of the liberated mommy. I was bragging that I should have a party. That after being stay-at-home mommy for 7.5 years, THIS would be my shining moment. I would be free. For 6 hours per day. I was going to spend my first day doing errands that are so hard to do with kids around. Followed by a nap.

It turns out I’m a little bit of an emotional wreck. And instead of partying, I’ve done a little shopping, cleaned the house, organized the DVDs and re-alphabetized them, and am thinking of making cookies for my darling kids before zooming up to the school to get there early. I look forward to holding my little girl in my arms again.

It doesn’t matter that I’m not ready to let her go. She’s ready.

Damn hormones.

There goes my baby!! *snf*

We’ve had on the family calendar the much anticipated release of The Beatles RockBand for a VERY LONG TIME. In part because my husband works at Harmonix, and we’ve been missing him lately, as he’s been on deadline! But also — it’s the Beatles!! And we are a family that plays RockBand together! Allen is amazing on drums and guitar, and he also sings, Laurel sings and, well, DANCES! Kelsey plays some really good drums and sings; I sing and play guitar. I’m not ashamed to admit that it’s rather freakin’ adorable to watch us play as a band. And now we get to choose which Beatle to play. Hi, I’m Paul! But you can call me Sir Paul.

The songs on The Beatles RockBand are just… wow. You start out with 45 Beatles songs. Downloadable content will be available BY ALBUM! First up for DLC will be Abbey Road (my favorite album!!), followed by Rubber Soul and Sgt. Pepper’s. I can’t wait!!

For now, I’m happy to be singing “Eight Days a Week” and “Come Together” and “Paperback Writer” and a whole bunch of songs I know by heart. The Beatles songs are the songs I grew up listening to. And now, my kids are getting into The Beatles’ music. Literally. Kelsey is right now singing “Ticket to Ride” with great stage presence and hitting the notes almost perfectly. She has a really good voice to begin with, and when she and I sing together, she can even sing the harmony. She keeps replaying the opening visual in the game, which is just AWESOME, as are all the visuals. And the game play is beautiful and easy to follow, so kids and newcomers to RockBand will have no trouble getting into playing.

So, Happy 09/09/09!! Today our family marks the occasion of the launch of this awesome game with much celebration, cheesy poofs, and singing. Laurel is dancing while Kelsey gleefully sings “Octopus’s Garden.” I can’t wait to get the band together again! Come home from work, honey! We need a drummer!

Oh, and GO BUY THIS GAME!

photo by Scott Lefton

Many of you have asked for a belly shot. This is my belly at 30 weeks. Yes, there is only ONE baby in there. I only appear to be carrying a litter. Now you may twitter amongst yourselves about my gargantuan midsection, and save the thoughtful comments about how glorious I look in this, my last pregnancy, for me to read here on my blog. You will undoubtedly note the bags under my eyes. You can bet that after I give birth, I’ll be poking my sleeping newborn throughout the day to get my revenge for the last two months of his tap dancing in my uterus for hours on end starting at the magical hour of 2am and ending around 6am. Sleep deprivation is a bitch.

I’m at that interesting phase of pregnancy where everywhere I go, people either stare or move quickly out of my way, perhaps afraid I’m going to eat them. And, hey, if they are made out of chocolate, I do eat them.

On a slightly more serious note, I am spectacularly healthy. I’m now 33 weeks, so my belly button is moving toward that “done” position where it’s starting to poke out. I must admit, this has been my least comfortable late pregnancy. I very much look forward to the completion of this project and regaining my mobility, flexibility and stamina. Blood sugar, blood pressure, baby heartbeat, baby position — all indicators are normal and good. We’re hoping for another natural childbirth in mid-October *crossing fingers*.

Sometimes, I’m completely blindsided by something new one of my children does. Like when the 5 year old, who is going through a picky phase, voluntarily tries tuna fish and declares that she loves it. Or when the seven year old gives me an oral report on the differences between the movie version of James and the Giant Peach and the book. I seem to find myself surprised often by the things they are saying, the questions they’re asking. Their fears, their little and big steps.

Today, my big kid swam across the pool at our friends’ house. I had been giving her lessons, slowly building her confidence. But today, she just did it by herself. And kept doing it. I kept myself on the very verge of freaking the fuck out every time I caught her in the deep end without anything to hang on to. She made it to the side every time, without gasping or seeming winded at all. I, of course, was hovering nearby, ready to dive in and save her life. Yep. I’m on the paranoid side. I blame pregnancy.

But soon, Kelsey even got up the courage to jump into the deep end from the side of the pool in a float, going completely underwater.

And I wonder: was I like her when I was young? Did I have these days of courage, of bounding past milestones? It’s hard to remember being new to these experiences. I remember things like learning how to dive, how to ride a bike. There’s a fraction of a lifetime of little steps that I’ve forgotten, that I haven’t given a lot of thought to. Not until recently, when I’m trying to dig through my childhood memories to get a glimpse of the little freckled Terry and her fears, her ways of dealing with new challenges, and the ways her parents helped her. I miss that little kid. Sometimes I feel so very far away from her. And sometimes I do recall a big step. Sometimes she reminds me of what it’s like to get over that fear of the dark, of the monster under my bed. It makes me a better parent, to get into those little shoes once again.

At times, I look at my two little girls, and I see a little bit of her. Shy, sweet, happy, neat. And I see a little bit of the boy their father used to be. Cautious, brilliant, focused, quiet. It makes me wonder who this little guy kicking the hell out of my uterus is going to be. A little bit like me, a little like him?

It’s not narcissism, necessarily, to want to see yourself in your children. It’s a recognition, a familiarity. It’s comforting. It’s the statement that *I* have been through these things and lived. They didn’t break me. I am not STILL that little girl who was terribly constipated and afraid of the abominable snowman from the Rudolph movie. I finally DID learn to get over my fear of swimming in the ocean after watching Jaws.

What will they do tomorrow, these little kids who amuse me, who challenge my patience and make me a better person. I’m both anxious to find out, and EXHAUSTED with the thought that I have to keep keeping up with them and being present so that I don’t miss something, another thing, that is so amazing that I have to remember to write about it late at night, after books and goodnights, when they’ve slipped off into dreams I’ll never see.