I had a baby. So now we're moving. This is a pattern for us. Have baby, embark on switching homes, from settled home to a new place, one that always seems to need work. In this case it's primarily paint, but several hundred square feet worth of paint. While "learning" remotely. D'Garebear is on track to start walking right about the time we open the first box. Preparing to move means purging. Getting rid of things is one of the most enjoyable things I know to do. I spent the first few weeks of quarantine cleaning out everything. Only to realize all my work would have to stay bagged up waiting for donation centers to reopen. No good deed and all that jazz. Despite the angst that seeing bags of donations waiting to go cause me, it was worth the work. The purging is a necessity in a small house in particular, since the Father Figure tends to be a collector. Collector of things, computer parts,comic books, games, tools, cars, children....and everything takes up space. 

Space is a valuable commodity so naturally we have very little of it. It's a constant source of stress for me and even with a larger house on the horizon, with plenty of storage it's something I'm worried about. So much so, as I laid on the beach, dozing in the sun, I mentally arranged my future laundry room. The Father Figure side-eyed me hard after hearing that, but it's the mom brain, it just doesn't turn off.

 And that was part of the emotional challenge of welcoming D'Garebear. It probably sounds silly, but I was overwhelmed at the thought of acquiring baby things again, even though we kept things down to a minimum. I felt a door that I had closed reopen, with diapers and baby toys to try to edge out the soccer cleats and book bags that were already cluttering up my life. Closing that door, getting rid of all the baby things after X-Man and Cinco was a very emotional time. I cried, much more than I probably should have. I sent cute clothes off to gestating nieces and nephews but it was very bittersweet. 

Getting rid of D'Garebear's things, which are mostly getting donated until some new baby boy appears on the horizon, isn't emotional at all. I enjoy it. There's a great sense of satisfaction and relief. And this bothered me. Was I really this heartless and frustrated by D'Garebear's disruption of our lives? I don't think that's it. Sure I'm writing this and watching D'Garebear systematically empty the laundry basket, babbling away to me. Discovering that if he pushes it, he can throw clothes all over the living room. I think I'm not sad to see him outgrow his clothes because each size he goes up is a little victory. He started out as a micro-preemie, so outgrowing clothing for six month olds by his first birthday is a happy accomplishment. Every bag of giveaway is another step in the right direction. And they have been some massive steps. D'Garebear rests comfortably in the 50th percentile for his birth age, which is quite the accomplishment. Preemies are typically measured according to their "adjusted age" as if they had been born on their due date. But D'Garebear found that too easy for his Italian tummy and he went to town on all food. He's constantly worried that someone somewhere is eating and he's not in on the action. I supposed that's why he's the size he is, all his energy has gone to eating, so much so he forgot to grow hair.

 So now, I'm not sad to see him outgrow clothing. Everyday we get with him is a surprise. I had shut this door, and was at peace with it being closed. So I'm at peace with D'Garebear growing up. He's a fun surprise and there's something extra comforting about being able to really enjoy every step he takes growing bigger and stronger. That's not to say that every preemie outfit he has isn't tucked away safely in a keepsake box. I'm not completely heartless. Although I stare at them and wonder how this lug of a baby ever was that small. Those NICU weeks seem a blur these days. I think the quarantine and all those extra hours home, with nowhere to go have become my chief memories of Baby D'Garebear. I just really remember Baby D'Garebear as a healthy infant. And I look forward to seeing him as a healthy toddler.

And I look forward passing along his outgrown clothes. 

 X-Man dotes on D'Garebear. D'Garebear idolizes X-Man. He follows him around and laughs anytime they make eye contact. X-Man enjoys the power that comes with being the adored older brother. He also uses D'Garebear as his excuse to do absurd things for a laugh. 

It got to the point that simply walking across the room elicited a laugh from D'Garebear. X-man decided to exaggerate his actions even more reveling in his power, and the envy of his siblings as D'Garebear ate up everything he did. X-Man broke into a dance, wiggling around, getting uncomfortably close to me as I held the joyous D'Garebear. X-Man shook his rear in my face. 

"Stop please X-Man." 

"But he thinks it's funny."

"Honey, he's a baby. He doesn't know butts are funny."

"Everyone knows butts are funny."

To compliment this argument, D'Garebear squealed with laughter and began to smack his brother's hiney. I fear the next eighteen years. 

X-Man is dedicated to caring for D'Garebear. He had blossomed into a loving big brother, with a great deal of patience.  

"Mom, when I grow up I want to be a babysitter." 

"I'm sure you'll be a very good one" 

X-Man lifts D'Garebear, who is now a fully quarter of X-Man's body weight and loves to go limp as he's lugged around. Huffing he adds "I'm going to be a single dad when I grow up." 

Of all the things to hear from your nine year old, especially as their mother, this was not expected. He catches my perplexed look. 

"I don't want to get married. That's gross." 

So, in the course of thirty seconds, I went from mentally patting myself on the back watching my sons interact with each other to wondering how I had so completely turned my son off the idea of a wife and mother in his future. I mean, maybe I do make it seem gross. If by gross one means organized and clean. His future wife would most likely expect him to brush his teeth and shower occasionally. And wear clean underwear if she's super demanding. 

"and I'm going to live in a 'repartment'." Well, as long as you've thought this through. 

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"Well how are you going to have a baby without a wife?" I mean, there's going to have to be a gross girl involved in this process at least somewhat. I get we haven't completely walked through the realities of reproduction in toto, but we have discussed how one needs the male and female parts to make a whole. Then again, I've seen how he listens to me so I don't know why I'm surprised. 

"Oh, I'm going to go to the orphanage." 

Well, then. This is a foolproof plan. 

"But, don't you think it would be better to have a mom and a dad? I mean moms and dads are both important for kids right?" 

Rule one of lawyering, and of parenting too, is don't ask a question you don't know the answer to. Or better yet, don't ask a question you don't want to hear the answer to. 

X-Man was tiring of the conversation and walked D'Garebear over to the window. He let out a long sigh. 

"Fine, I'll get him a stepmother." 

Well then. I guess that's that. 

 

One might ask how it is that I spent the entire quarantine not blogging. As there should be a plethora of material. My official line is "well behaved children rarely make for interesting blogging" and I'm sticking with it. 

In truth, it's been pleasant and fun to have so much downtime. By the end of April the novelty had worn off. But the end of May, both Baby and Baba were demanding to return to soccer. Because I controlled that. X-Man has been fretting about trick or treating already. 

The quarantine had clarified how absolutely necessary a larger house is for the sanity of us all. Our pre-quarantine lives were extremely busy. At least twice a month there was a three hour, one way, commute for soccer. Even the "local" games would be an hour away. For the young kids, their activities were much more local, but every weekend had activities. So the father figure and I were gone for the majority of every weekend. During the school day, there would be a good chunk of the day when just Mac and Cinco were home with me. But come shut down, during the rainy spring, we realized we really were living on top of each other. 

So of course, the reasonable approach, just months from taking on college tuition payments, is to increase our mortgage payments significantly. Oh and Mac went ahead and jumped on the braces train because.....why not? 

So that's quarantine life. Boring and crowded. And spendy.

D'Garebear thrived during quarantine. The lack of activities meant an increase of attention on him. And that suited him just fine. He repaid his fans by increasing his talents and mobility. Cinco turned seven during the lock down, so the experience of watching a newborn grow and mature was a fairly unfamiliar experience for the siblings as a whole. Even Baba and Baby were surprised to see how young D'Garebear was when he figured out how to garner attention, whether it was fake crying or squawking. X-Man and Cinco had precious little baby experience and found each new development fascinating. And also necessary to fight over who saw what first, for whom D'Garebear was performing and who D'Garebear likes more. (hint, it's whoever is giving D'Garebear whatever he wants in the moment.)

D'Garebear has started to object loudly when ever I leave the house. At first I thought it was a long delayed separation anxiety, as I hadn't actually left him much in the previous months. Any sort of jingle of keys and he'd start bellowing, and chasing me down as quickly as one can on all fours. I tried to distract him by taking him upstairs, but he was wise to my ways. He'd stand at the large living room window crying as I left. But, then he started reacting this way when anyone left, not just mom. Even if they were just getting something from the car, or getting the mail. It seemed that D'Garebear had rejected the quarantine that had been imposed on him since birth and become quite the social butterfly. 

Indeed, today I finally made the connection. D'Garebear does love the leave the house. Because he misses woman in masks fawning all over him. He had nine weeks of personalized attention and was loath to give it up. When he discovered that leaving the house opens up all sorts of mostly older women, wearing masks, to tell him how cute, smart and wonderful he is....well he's not one to turn adulation down. And he's back to his happy place. 

He makes it worth their while. He's friendly until they look, and then he bats his large eyes at them presenting an image of innocent wonder. He's still bald as Buddha which makes him appear to be younger than he is. So then he seems amazingly advanced and that warrants even more cooing and ahhing. 

Meanwhile I'm telling him to stop trying to eat the shopping cart, now flavored with bleach. So of course this is soul crushing for the boy, and his large eyes and protruding lower lip is basically a bat signal to the grandmas out there. He rewards their attention by offering them items from our cart. Often while I am desperately searching for various necessities like Clorox wipes. And ignoring him, which he is not pleased with. 

And when I turn to check on him, D'Garebear breaks into his favorite game, and a new one to me. It's called "Pull mom's mask off and shove it in your mouth. Or at least lick as much of it as possible first. And bonus points if you then drop it on the floor." This is a great crowd pleaser. Again, mom is not amused. But I'm not bored that's for sure. 

I'm six children in. And still having new experiences. Well done D'Garebear, well done.

The father figure had surgery and was off for eight weeks. During that time, the dog had surgery as well, just to remain in good standing with the family. She had a tumor on her ear, and a large portion of her ear, removed. The father figure handled all the prep work, and actual surgery but returned to work before her post operative visit. Which left me responsible for getting the doggie stitches out. The dog was ready to exit the cone of shame with which she was wreaking havoc on the Christmas tree ornaments. And I was ready to stop seeing my ornaments break. D'Garebear is still an infant, this is my one bye year when it comes to ornament destruction. Or so I has assumed. Never assume.

Of course the father figure made the appointment for late in the afternoon, when Baby and Baba were off at martial arts, something the father figure has insisted his little girls learn, insisted from the moment of their births. My point being, this is all the father figure's fault.

Mac is a responsible young man who is comfortable watching X-Man and Cinco for limited amounts of time. Part of his responsibility is his recognition of his limitations. He has said he doesn't feel ready to watch D'Garebear and I'm quite comfortable with his assessment his abilities. X-Man and Cinco happily sit on the couch and watch movies or play video games while I'm gone, D'Garebear, awesome as he is, is not yet that sort of team player. The point here is that I ended up heading off to the vet with an eighty pound golden retriever and an infant.

The dog was excited to go, but also perplexed that I was driving her somewhere that didn't involve the other small persons. I couldn't put her in the back of the SUV as I typically do as the father figure decided to stash Christmas presents there. I didn't want her in a confined space with D'Garebear, so I helped her lumber in the passenger seat. I walked around to the driver's side, opened the door and discovered the dog sitting in my seat. She had crawled over the center console, smeared her wet muddy feet all over everything in the front of the car and plopped herself in my seat. So I had to push her back her side, spreading the mud even more.  

She was clearly aware something was up and wasn't about to endure it alone. So she finagled her head so she could lay on my lap. Which is exactly what you want when it's dark and rainy. But, having endured surgery just a few months earlier, I indulged her. Also, the dog is really good at not understanding English when she chooses not to. So, like another kid. So there I was, parking in the vet parking lot when I realized I had a dog and a baby to wrestle in. The dog was not interested in going anywhere as she realized we weren't at a park or the river. Not sure how she knew we were at the vet, but the dog who didn't understand English could now read the sign. 

I had to make a decision, perhaps not based on the best metrics but based on what I needed to survive. I took D'Garebear, sleeping peacefully in his car seat, out first. covered him and put his on the ground in the parking lot. I then dragged the unwilling literate dog out of the car. And lifted the baby's seat. 

The dog sat. And refused to move. I don't know if you've ever tried to drag a limp eighty pound dog with a heavy car seat hanging in the crook of your arm. I don't recommend it. It's hard and annoying. Especially when it's man's best friend refusing to cooperate. I'll spare you the details but Santa wasn't happy with my language. 

We reached the door which presented it's own problems. I had to hold the leash with two hands as the dog was still desperately holding to the Newtonian concept that an object at rest remains at rest. With a large unwieldy car seat swinging back and forth, well it was about comical. Although I wasn't laughing. If you thought someone inside would assist, well you would think. I managed to get my foot in the door, quite literally, my knee played a role as well and pushed my way in. The dog continued to sit, knowing she simply had to out wait the closing door. She didn't think I would sacrifice the child carrier in my battle of wills with her. But I was past caring what anyone else thought. Most especially the dog. 

Finally entering the clinic, another customer observed "You have your hands full." I gave him my best "nice to meet you Sherlock" look and sat down. The dog followed me sheepishly and laid down. She was freshly wet and muddy due to her antics in the parking lot. The result was a trail of muddy water leading to my chair but I was past caring. We sat catching our breath, well except for D'Garebear who was still sleeping. I had his carrier on the floor so I could rock it with my foot while still grasping the dog's leash with both hands. The dog seemed resigned to her fate. 

When they called her name, she perked up and decided she still had some fight in her. Or flight. She opted for hide. Behind the baby carrier. She nosed my foot away and firmly believed she was out of sight hiding behind the car seat. I moved the car seat, she moved. She attempted to push herself behind my legs to add a cloak of invisibility to her attempts. At this point, the tech took her leash.  The dog gave me a pathetic look realizing the jig was up and shuffled off. 

She pranced out five minutes later, stitch free and greatly relieved. Leaving was quite uneventful, as we all were happy to get ourselves out of there. 

So, the dog used a baby as a shield. Because that's our fierce dog. Her bark could shake the walls, but she didn't even have a bite.