Eastern Connecticut is a black hole for a lot of things – chain restaurants, free public beaches, Anthropologies – but this time of year I am totally in love with everything about it. TOTALLY. I drive around on my regular every day errands literally GASPING at how gorgeous the trees are. Out loud. GASP. And just when I think I’ve found the most spectacular, fall postcard worthy stretch of road I round a corner and IT’S EVEN MORE GORGEOUS HOLY CRAP I CAN’T EVEN. Throw in trips to do photo-shooty fall-type things with my children in plaid shirts and tiny overalls and it’s a miracle I don’t pee my pants with excitement. Or maybe that’s why I’m wearing black pants.

Of course, my blissful land of red and oranges and yellows and pumpkins and caramel apples and chicken pot pie lasts for approximately two weeks (IF WE’RE LUCKY and it doesn’t rain for all of October). The rest of fall is cold and dreary and brown, and I reserve my right to complain about it on the daily right up until we get our first real snow of the winter and/or/usually at the same time Christmas. Then everything is AMAZING and GORGEOUS and A FAIRYLAND OF MAGICALNESS for exactly the amount of time it takes for the snow plow to come and spew dirty slush all over the place. After that it’s just one long stretch of misery until spring shows up in April (or May, more likely) when all the flowers bloom and I once again remember why I love New England.

I never said it was a HEALTHY relationship, but it’s one I don’t plan to get out of any time soon.

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I got new glasses this week, for the first time in years. My old ones were thin and gold and half-rimless and totally considered fashionable when I bought them, if that gives you an idea of how long it has been. I bought two pairs from the place that did my exam and then asked them for my prescription. Because I am SMART, I also looked up what exactly one needs to order glasses from the interwebs BEFORE I asked for it, to make sure I got all the parts I needed.

Turns out – SURPRISE! – they don’t actually give you all the information you need! Because they are jerks and want you to be forced to buy their $350 Tory Burch frames! The woman who was helping me wrote down the extra number I needed in teeny tiny letters at the bottom of the page and whispered “You can take this anywhere. THEY will know what it means” as if she was giving me the secret recipe for Coca-Cola instead of just the distance between my eyeballs. When I said I was planning to get a zillion pairs of $6 frames from the internet (thanks to a fantastic tip from Swistle) she got all scoldy and mean and told me I was wasting my money because those cheap glasses would probably break after two weeks anyway. To which I say YES, EXACTLY, which is why they are SIX DOLLARS. But with two grabby little kids I am just as likely to break my $350 Tory Burch glasses (yeah, they got me) and I don’t see you offering to replace them out of the kindness of your heart.

Besides, I am finally getting used to seeing things again. It’s kind of nice and I don’t want a pair of broken glasses to ruin that.

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I want to write about how I am surviving some temporary single parenting LIKE A CHAMP – not only am I keeping the kids alive, I’m cooking dinner from scratch! Knitting things! The house isn’t a disaster! I have put away folded laundry! TWICE! – but that would be tempting fate just a little too much and I have TOO MANY DAYS left before I get my husband back, so that is all I will say about that.

Post-script: I HADN’T EVEN SCHEDULED this post yet and shit started to fall apart. I will NEVER LEARN.

Little Evan speaks his own language. I think it’s almost English but I can’t be sure, since most English speakers seem to have a hard time understanding him. Maybe it’s a NickJunioreese, a crazy mix of Spanish, Chinese, and speech-impedimented English picked up from those damn Wonder Pets.

“Meenah” is lemonade. Unless it means banana. You have to look around for a banana. “Peesdar!” is police car. He can say “car” correctly, but when he sees “flash lights” he gets to excited it comes out as one word. “Brusey” is our dog Brutus. He used to say Brutus until he spent some time with my parent’s dog Hershey, and now he smooshes their names together. “Ditty” is kitty, which is an improvement over the previous pronunciation. “Fall denoun” is fall down, which is so cute I don’t even care that it’s wrong. “Bushit” actually means push it, although I don’t think anyone believes me.

As much as I love that he’s friendly and outgoing and eager to talk to everyone, I’m getting tired of translating everything he says to strangers at the grocery store and strangers at the mall and strangers at the playground and strangers in general. I’m not tired at HIM, I’m tired at OTHER PEOPLE. I can only say “I’m sorry, he’s hard to understand” so many times. And the truth is, it’s more a matter of busy people not paying attention than anything else. See that pinecone he’s holding? Maybe he’s saying “pinecone!” You asked him if Caroline was his sister, maybe “bebeh siher” might mean “baby sister!” Most grown-ups rush in and say “Oh aren’t you handsome! How old are you? Are you a good boy? Bye-bye now!” all in one quick breath and then breeze back out without pausing for a response. Or if they do they’re really asking ME, and wouldn’t even notice if he tried to answer. Evan could say “I’m two, lady, and your wig isn’t fooling anyone” and they’d just coo some more and wander off to finish their shopping.

I’ve been around enough two-and-a-half-year-olds-who-then-grow-into-three-and-a-half-year-olds to know this is just a phase. His brain thinks thoughts he wants to share but his mouth just can’t keep up. He learns a hundred new words a day and can’t keep them all straight. Whole sentences come tumbling out in a jumble and he gets frustrated. He’ll grown into it eventually and the whole world will hear what he has to say Dino Dan and race cars and big diggers and baseball and everything else. He’ll stop saying “More meena peees!” and start saying “Mama, can I have a banana?”

Although yesterday he called me “MOM”. I am not OK with being MOM yet. MOM is for surly, eye-rolling teenagers. So maybe I don’t mind translating just a little longer.

I wish there was an easy way to explain how having a second baby is different from having a first baby, but there are SO MANY WAYS I don’t think I can. When people talk about having a second baby, they talking about “doing it again” – “Oh I couldn’t do that all again! The spit up! The diapers! The sleepless nights!” – but they forget that all the OTHER stuff is easier. Yes there is going to be a ton of poop, but you’ve gotten so good at pinning down a squirmy baby while you change them it only ends up on your clothes once a day! Or even less!

I should probably include a disclaimer that my second baby is a much easier baby than my first, but honestly I’m not sure where the line between “easier because she was born more easy-going” and “easier because I treat her differently” falls. It’s like the chicken and the egg, if the chicken is a mother who is often distracted by a toddler licking things he shouldn’t be licking and the egg is a baby who has learned to only scream for attention when she’s about to be eaten by wolves or fall down a well. There is something to be said for nature – Little Evan has some sort of crazy silent, painless reflux that turned him into an 8 pound vomit machine and Caroline has thrown up half a dozen times in her entire life – but the way I nurture her is definitely making a difference.

For example, we are sleep training Caroline, which is something I literally couldn’t even imagine doing with Little Evan. My brain shut down and my head hurt and my boobs tingled just thinking about LEAVING MY BABY alone to cry in the dark. Don’t get me wrong, there were plenty of nights he cried in the crib but it was after HOURS AND HOURS of rocking and nursing and begging and banging my head against the wall wondering why I was such a failure as a mother. It never occurred to me he was just really tired and if I put him down for more than 30 seconds he might fall asleep.

But Caroline has been acting nocturnal and I’ve been totally exhausted and unable to parent my OTHER kid during the day plus I decided it was sort of ridiculous she would ONLY sleep in her baby swing at nine months old. So we put her in the crib. That’s it. She’s fussed a few times, but if I let her roll around and shout indignantly (as opposed to because she is hurt or hungry or needs something) for five minutes she sleeps like, well, a baby. I know the crying won’t kill her because it didn’t kill the first kid. I have tangible proof I am capable of keeping a human being alive despite my mistakes, and that confidence is PRICELESS.

It also works in the other direction – because Caroline takes more hands-on time than Little Evan (except on the days when he’s potty training, which is one of the reasons we haven’t been trying too hard but now that he’s showing a lot of interest we’re going to have to and OMG I AM NOT LOOKING FORWARD TO IT) he has gotten more independent and really improved his communication skills. He’s also more loving and affectionate, which I suspect is because I spend so much time holding the baby he wants some cuddle time of his own. I call that a win-win.

Even when things that worked the first time (ahem, babywearing) don’t work so great with baby #2, I have enough confidence in my own mothering skills to just move on and try something else. It’s making this whole parenting gig much more fun.

I’m assuming the next kid will just be born walking, talking and making my morning coffee.

(p.s. Caroline took 6 steps TWICE on Sunday. Remind me to re-read this post when they start running in opposite directions)

Diagnose me, interwebs. I need you to tell me I’m normal. Or maybe just a quick kick in the ass and someone to drag me out of this giant hole of ennui and laziness I’ve fallen into. I don’t really feel like doing anything anymore. And I really mean anything. Getting dressed is boring. Going to Stroller Strides is too much work. Taking the kids to the grocery store is exhausting. Washing my hair is pointless. My diet plan sucks. Talking to people is hard. It’s too hot. It’s too cold. I don’t wanna and this couch is so comfortable and no one actually cares if I get off it.

As a stay at home mom, I have the option to just…stay home. And lately that sounds more and more appealing.

I can complain about being So Busy with the best of them – “Oh yes! I’m So Busy! I’m on a diet and exercise plan, plus I’m really into making soup from scratch these days. And the blog! People are counting on me to…write stuff!” – but really? Besides providing basic food stuffs and making sure the laundry piles don’t get too high (and you know, keeping two children alive) I have no mandatory activities. So when I’m exhausted and in bed at 9 pm it’s my own doing. I’m not busy. I MAKE myself busy to make myself feel more important.

(Insert paragraph about how raising human beings IS important! I am creating loving, kind, functional adults who might cure cancer or fly to Mars or invent calorie-free dark chocolate! Now insert massive eye roll because all I’m actually doing these days is wiping butts and filling sippy cups.)

Lately, when we’re on our way to somewhere I start fantasizing about how I could just NOT. I can seeeeeeee us, all NOT DOING THINGS, and we are are enjoying it. I can feel my desire to be still and quiet pulling on me, whispering in my ear that my kids are too young to even remember these places so why bother? For the blog pictures? That’s stupid.

I’ve given in to my laziness a few times over the last few weeks and it is kind of fantastic. Kid’s TV for the toddler, stretchy pants and a Diet Coke for me, grapes and a teether toy for Caroline and we can all do nothing until E gets home from work. But it makes me sort of nervous because there is a fine, well walked line between taking a few days off from regular life and becoming a shut in whose kids no longer know how to interact with the general public. How deep can I let my hole get?

Also, my desire not to do stuff has also started creeping into stuff that’s slightly less optional, like dinner and laundry. How about pizza for dinner? Why put these clothes away when they’re just going to get dirty? Who cares if the half of the house we don’t use is a mess? None of the other people who live here seem to. And then a teeny tiny thought that says Why don’t you just not get up with the baby? You can let your husband do it. You can just stay in bed. He would HAVE to deal with it eventually. It only takes a few seconds for me to shake it off, but the idea showing up in my head at all is like having your grandma show up in your sexy dream about George Clooney. That’s weird, Grandma. Go away.

I’m afraid it’s only going to get worse, since the colder weather means fewer places to go (mall, aquarium, children’s museum, mall, aquarium, lather rinse repeat) and bundling up two kids is about as much fun as bundling up two rabid badgers. And when it’s snowing, staying home is allowed – encouraged, even! – so the people I see on a regular basis won’t even start to wonder where I am. Which might be nice for a while, since I can’t seem to hold a normal conversation without talking about my toddler’s potty training efforts or my baby’s habit of biting my nipples and NOBODY wants that mom at their party.

The irony of all these words is that I didn’t explain myself very well, but because I am so filled with ennui I can’t be bothered to explain any better, which might actually be the perfect example of what I meant in the first place.

I swear to God this week went by so fast I barely remember the beginning half, but I have NO IDEA what we did. Thank goodness I take so many pictures.

Sunday:

We filled the bathtub with water in case our power went out. E laughed at me (and our power was only out for 3 hours) but the people who only got power back TODAY wish they had remembered to do it too!

Back yard during the hurricane

LET ME OUT!

Monday:

Storm damage at the park

Oh my heart attack. STOP CLIMBING NOW.

Strawberry

Tuesday:

"Food Mama! Foood!!! More!!" says the toddler holding the giant bag of Splenda.

Mind. Blown.

One armed toddler and the modesty duck. Worst children's book ever.

Wednesday:

Baby yoga: cobra pose and child's post

I have no idea what this pose is, but I'm impressed.

Step one, you put a toddler in the box

Thursday:

This garden was calling my name. Except instead of sitting there relaxing I dragged a screaming 2-year old through the parking lot. Good times.

"Evan SAD", says Evan. "No shit", says Mama. It was that kind of day.

Friday:

THIS IS HAPPENING.

Impromptu family outing to feed the ducks

I see you, kid. Get your finger out of your nose.

Started Caroline's winter coat. BECAUSE IT IS FALL. IT IS, NO REALLY, IT IS. Well, ok, SOON.

Saturday:

Fancy hair! But I have no idea how I did it. also, it's held in place with a knitting needle.

THIS IS STILL HAPPENING.

Letting Caroline chew on my keys is super gross, but the screaming if you take them away is worse.

Who has two thumbs and is super excited about this three day weekend PLUS a vacation we have coming up? THIS GUY. There is a beach involved. And girlfriends. And before that we’re going to make the most of this summer weekend – I hope you’re prepared for a whole week of picture essays about ice cream and cows and babies frolicking in sun dresses.

Did you take any camera phone photos this week? Link up with one or lots using the linky below and grab the code (so it shows on your blog too!) over at Amy’s . It’s really fun!