Today I start with bragging rights of “I had Harvard on my brackets”. This probably isn’t noteworthy, but I’ll brag anyways because this is my first time engaging in the March Madness Hoopla. I’m only doing it for the prizes and money, I haven’t watched a game yet and I don’t intend to start. Basketball bores the heck out of me, but winning stuff doesn’t.

Also I would like to take a minute to note the passing of Chinua Achebe. I read Things Fall Apart in college in a class about Colonialism and Literature. The class was as interesting as I’d hope, and this was one of the many fantastic novels we had to read as a part of it. I also acknowledge that if it weren’t for that class, I never would have bothered to read this and I hope if you haven’t read it, you will.

Now to business.

I sometimes wonder if children become experiments after you have your first one. You do some tweak of something you may have done the first time to see what happens with the next one. I formula fed one, fed pumped milk to the other. I did everything right during one pregnancy and pretty much everything wrong the other. One I worked several hours and the other I stayed at home. I learned something valuable from this experiment: there’s no difference in either child. Except for size, but my husband is a foot taller than my ex, so that’s more genetics than anything.

This makes me wonder if it isn’t the differences that matter, but the key elements that were the same. I raised them in as calm and loving as an environment as I was capable. I made sure that no matter what, I tucked them even if they were sleeping already. I set boundaries, I punished when those boundaries were crossed. I’m not afraid to say no, and I don’t feel guilty for it. I expect them to do their best at everything they do, and give them the opportunities and time to try to excel. How do you do this with a baby? I let him roam the floor while I stay close enough to make sure he stays safe, but allow the freedom to go where he wants safely. (Obviously, stairs are gated off and cabinets locked.) I do let him fall if it’s safe enough, catching him with pillows or my arms. I never yell, and make sure no one else does as well. I always praise my children, and tell them how to improve to do better.

This is comforting. It shows to me that it doesn’t matter if you nurse, pump, or give formula. Aside from the baby who had breastmilk was sick less often and less severe than the other, there is really no difference between the two. They are both well-mannered, happy and healthy. That’s all that matters. This means no one should feel pressures to do anything but their best, because nothing else matters.

My Monday’s post didn’t get lost in a hangover fueled by the excuse everyone uses to be Irish and get drunk at a parade. We didn’t attend a parade, nor can I even drink to try. Instead, half of our family spend it eating that disgusting slop known as “boiled dinner”, while my husband feasted on NyQuil, my oldest son sneezing all over the baby, and the baby being funneled full of Tylenol and juice. I had pizza and Chinese food, that’s how I celebrated. Hooray for colds, not that we would’ve taken the baby to a parade in a part of a city I don’t want to be in anyways in the middle of a freezing day. Everyone’s illness by Monday was no better, so the post really got lost in a baby who was too busy coughing, sneezing, running a fever, and not wanting to leave Mommy.

I did get to celebrate Monday with the second true Irish art: our tempers. Easily flared, easily passed. At least, I thought they normally pass quick. This apparently doesn’t apply when your child is nearly harmed. In picking up my older son at his CCD classes, he was nearly hit by a car parked inside the area where the CCD kids are dismissed. He didn’t pay attention, and sped off in his fancy car picking up his children from the school’s after school program, nearly running down my son. If it weren’t for me screaming “Dyl, stop!!”, this post would be an entirely different and much angrier post. The guy didn’t stop when he saw me running and screaming, he floored it and left. The gate on that side is normally shut to prevent these measures, but not today.

This wouldn’t have been a big issue if the guy would’ve driven a little slower, if he had paid a little attention, or even if he cared enough to be a decent human being after the incident to stop and apologize for being (pardon my french) a giant asshole. After the fact I realized I should have taken a picture of the car and license plate, but it wouldn’t have mattered. I was so shaky with rage and terror the picture probably wouldn’t have come out well. Then I comfort myself by saying, “what would I do with a picture? Being a douche isn’t a crime”. Two bad words, my apologies. See, apologizing isn’t hard fancy rich man who thinks he’s better than me.

I did the responsible and mature thing and emailed the head of the CCD program the next day, when I was calm enough to be an adult and not revert to my “give ’em hell” temper. As of yet, nothing. I don’t know if I really care if she apologizes or not, though one would be fantastic. I am sure that I want to make sure that this incident doesn’t happen to another child at this school. I’m also sure if she pins any blame on me or my son, I’ll make noise. Because my child’s safety is her concern until I get him into the car to go home with me.

When it comes to our children, we turn into completely different people. We because vicious and protective, daring anyone to “try me”. They say “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”. I don’t believe that’s the case. There is no rage like one a parent can easily fly into when their child is in danger. We’re tirelessly protective and eager to keep them safe at any cost. When I heard someone tried to bully my older son (tried, my son smart talked his way out of it and it never happened again), I won’t lie and say I didn’t want to hunt the kid down myself and show him what a real bully is. If someone tried to kidnap him or harm him seriously in any way, I can’t lie and say I wouldn’t try to severely injure that person. There’s something primal that eats away at our civility when it comes to protecting our children. That’s the way we should feel though, it’s normal to want to protect your child from everything you can and give them the best you can.

Six months ago today, I remember my husband rushing to get the trash bucket because rather than feeling an extreme amount of pain, I felt nothing but nauseous. It seemed no sooner than when I was done vomiting, a baby appeared magically. That’s not exactly how it worked, but I’m sure that graphically tamed edition is much less graphic than the actual encounter. I didn’t yell at my husband for convincing me this was a good idea, I probably would’ve considered it if I wasn’t so tired and he didn’t look so sick after watching the whole thing go down.

We lived a whole half a year. Now my husband is in familiar territory because when we first met what seemed like ages ago, my elder son was six months old. Now we’ve got this, and the fun can really begin. And by “the fun can really begin”, I really mean “we get to run around the house saying ‘Georgie, NO!” Then it looks like a tornado ran through the house: toys over every inch of the living room carpet, dog food tossed on the floor with the dog bowls thrown across the kitchen. Luckily the stairs are already blocked off because of our rambunctious little puppies. He enjoys sitting on the kitchen floor, smacking the metal dog bowls against the ground making music. He especially enjoys this while I make his food, looking at me for samples of whatever I blended up for him. I always do, it’s like watching a kid take the mixer attachment while licking brownie or cookie batter off of it.

The best, and the new ability that makes me the most nervous, is his “walking”. He loves that he learned that if he holds onto things to walk, he moves faster than when he crawls. What he doesn’t love is that when he lets go to try to go solo, he falls on nice pleasantly padded behind. But like I said before, at least he’s getting good at falling. I’m afraid I’m going to fall asleep while he’s playing and wake up to him toddling about the house while I yell that he’s too young and too small to be doing it. My husband doesn’t, he laughs and says “that’s my boy” while telling anyone who’ll listen that his boy is too smart for his own good. It’s true; both the boys are too smart for their own good. I know that I need to savor every moment of this, because they do grow up so fast. If you blink, they’ll be married with kids of their own.

Six months ago, a perfect addition was added to my family. I can’t believe it’s been this long already, it seems too soon. Every time I hold him to feed him the bottle, I wonder when he got to be so big. Sorry, not big. Tall. He’s a scrawny little guy, but he’s a tall one. (Anyone who knows my husband, does this sound familiar?) Next will be his big one year, where I know the best and worst are still yet to come. Life is short and it moves so fast. And anything can happen in the blink of an eye. It helps to keep everything in perspective though. There’s a lot of bad in the world, but there’s a lot of precious moments in it too. It’s hard to remember this after 4 practically sleepless nights, but you can’t spend the day in bed wishing for things to get better. If you do need to do that, maybe you should consider making things better. If not, then you should enjoy every precious moment you have, because it’s hard to tell when you won’t have them anymore.