Guilty.

“How are you doing?” In the wake of our second baby, everyone wants to know. That, and “are you ever going to blog again?” Well, this is how it’s going, and this is why I haven’t posted since the baby was born two months ago.

This morning, we were preparing to leave playgroup at our friend’s house. As I gathered the detritus of my life (sippy cups, receiving blankets, diaper bags, snack traps full of Goldfish), Buzzy spotted the front door open and darted through it. I grabbed the diaper bag, sprinted after her, and caught her by the hood of her coat on the front porch. As she strained against my grip, I turned to my friends in the doorway. “Bye, Deby! Bye-bye, Jack! Thanks for having us over!” Jack looked like he was trying to tell me something, but I didn’t pause to decipher his two-year-old chatter. We proceeded down the front walk, me grimly explaining to Buzzy just how naughty she’d been to run away. We hit the sidewalk before it dawned on me.

I forgot the baby.

“I forgot the baby!” I exclaimed. Another friend had walked out ahead of me with her son and offered me an out: “I thought you were just going to get Buzzy in the car, then go back.”

Nope. “I forgot the baby!” I gasped again. I turned to Deby, still standing in the doorway, now doubled over with laughter. “Oh, my God! I forgot her! I’ll be right back!”

I buckled the naughty big sister into her car seat, then returned to the house. “Um, does it count that I remembered before I crossed the street?” She was sympathetic, having a two year old and a new baby of her own. I picked up the car seat, where the baby seemed unaware she’d been abandoned.

So, that’s how it’s going. The baby’s been, relatively speaking, the easy part. The two year old is testing limits, pressing buttons and, even when she’s trying to be good, is so curious and fearless that I fear for her safety.

I protest to the Mothering Court of Guilt in my head that, technically, I hadn’t really left without the baby, as we were still on Deby’s property when I remembered her. But it’s a losing argument. This sweet little girl child, this rosy-posy baby who came out so pink and who smiles easily and often, will never get the attention we lavished on Buzzy. She’s the second kid. While I am savoring her babyhood so much more, I take fewer pictures and I document fewer milestones. (Even her first blog post features her older sister.)

So, how am I? Trying to balance a precocious two year old with a precious little baby doesn’t leave a lot of time for analysis, but I foresee a backlog of cases in the Mothering Court of Guilt in the years ahead.

New Year's Day.

2010 snuck up on me. I find myself sans resolutions at noon on the first day of the new decade. Getting through these last few weeks of pregnancy, celebrating the holidays and parenting a two year old with a head cold who can’t blow her nose and wakes up coughing during the night have left me just hoping we survive the next few months.

I am so grateful to be able to be pregnant, and we can’t wait to meet this new child, to find out whether it’s a boy or girl, to discover just how different a person he or she is from Buzzy. But, I don’t do well without sleep. I don’t do well when my house is messy (even though I don’t do well cleaning it, either). I don’t do well when Buzzy doesn’t do well, and of course I’m worried about how she’ll handle it all. It’s easy to anticipate the difficulties that the new baby will bring, but—not knowing this child beyond having his or her appendages lodged in sensitive places of my anatomy for the past 9 months—it’s harder for me to anticipate the joys.

Perhaps I’ll work on the positive thinking piece this year. And showering. Not necessarily in that order.

Weather-Ready

Snow! Around 18 inches of it, which is impressive anywhere, but especially for DC--land of the preemptive school-closing and grocery-store-blitzing should there be a hint of a flurry in the air. I plopped Buzzy in front of my new best friend a Doodlebug DVD and stepped out into the winter wonderland to sweep off our front steps. I did leave the door open in case of emergency.

A few minutes later, I heard a little voice announce, "I weady!" Standing in the doorway was my curly-haired toddler, clad in purple footie pajamas, her boots, her mittens, and a pair of my maternity underwear that she'd pulled from the hamper and put on over the whole ensemble. I was so proud of her for knowing to wear boots and mittens that I have tabled the whole "we wear underwear under our clothes" conversation for another time.