Cold turkey

For the first two years of her life, Berry watched almost no television. When she turned two, I patted myself on the back for devotedly following those American Academy of Pediatrics guidelines – and then I dropped the ball.

I didn't drop it in a huge way – more a series of fumbles, really – but over time she acquired a taste for Dora The Explorer, Clifford The Big Red Dog, Blue's Clues, The Mickey Mouse Club House (she actually thinks Mickey's real name is Mickeymouseclubhouse), JoJo's Circus, Elmo (not Sesame Street, just Elmo), Little Einsteins and Curious George. She even liked My Friends Tigger and Pooh, much to my chagrin; I despise Disney's inane, dumbed-down version of Winnie-the-Pooh.

Almost all Berry's television fare was on PBS Kids (educating and enlightening, right?) except for What Not To Wear, which was entirely my fault. "I like her pretty dress, mum-mum," she'd say after the makeover, and I'd change the channel guiltily. Can I help it if I want Clinton Kelly to be my best friend?

Ok, probably.

She was also completely excited by the merchandising. Everywhere we went: "Oh! Dora!", "Ohhhh, Kigger-Pooh!", "Oh mum-mum, see that Mickeymouseclubhouse!" She wanted every item emblazoned with their images – beach towels, play-doh, shoes, placemats, colouring books. She'd even try for the banned Disney Princesses. I dodged indulgence by letting her "say hello" and then put them back on the shelf... a winner on the avoiding tantrums front, but it sure slowed down our shopping trips.

Two weeks ago she saw Dora, Nemo, Hello Kitty and Mickey Mouse in a single supermarket display. It stopped her in her tracks. "Oh!" she shouted, "My shows!"

In that moment, I realised exactly how far we'd slid down television's slippery slope.

I've always wanted my kids to have their childhoods filled with wild imaginings, inventive play, exciting books, hare-brained schemes and little adventures, the way mine was. My brothers, my sister and I had very few toys and even less TV – no tricks, nothing on a silver platter, my Dad would say. But we had a lot of wide-open spaces, unscheduled afternoons, and parents who were pretty sure we'd survive if we fell out of trees ... the perfect environment for imagination to take root. I knew it would be harder for Berry to need her imagination, surrounded as she is by toys and activities, and doting grandparents ready to make her playroom overflow at each visit. So why was I making it even harder for her, by giving in on the TV front?

Over the past ten days, I've gradually deleted almost every show from our DVR. I've offered more book-reading, more tea parties, more paints, more tricycle rides, more playing with her wooden tools. When there's TV, we only watch Jon & Kate Plus Eight (because it's about kids her own age, and it never gives her that glazed look) or Charlie & Lola (because it's clever, and they have British accents... seriously, that's why).

Berry's let go of "her shows" much more easily than I expected. This probably has a lot to do with the fact that my Mum, who is the most meant-to-be-a-brilliant-grandma person I've ever known, is here entertaining and adoring her... but whatever, I'm grateful for an easy start to the transition.

I know this not-much-TV policy is going to take real long-term effort, and probably more tea parties than I'll care to have – but I'm pretty determined. Because in the end, I think allowing her imagination room to grow is one of the best gifts I can give her.

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Please, no pictures

Continuing the long and proud Lewis-baby tradition of being curiously large, Kickbaby weighed in at his two-month appointment: a jaw-dropping 15 pounds.

The nurse said, "I can't remember the last time I saw one this big!"

At 15 pounds, he's in the 95th percentile (meaning, since someone asked last time, that he's heavier than 95 percent of babies his age).

Berry, on the other hand, was a scrawny little third-percentile baby. Her weighings were absolutely pathetic, and people always underestimated her age by several months. At six months old, she weighed a teensy 14 pounds, 8 ounces – that's right, less than Kickbaby weighs at two months.

As I write, he's having a lovely snooze in his baby swing. He suggests that if you devote every minute to eating, sleeping and more eating, you too could double your weight in two months.

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We deserve cake

I'm no Martha Stewart (thank goodness) but I know a fabulous cake when I see one. Or two.

Mark and Sarah got the one-with-strawberries from the French bakery, and Melissa made and decorated the one-with-daisies with her own two hands. Clever.

And they all brought these cakes to our place. Even cleverer.


Anyway, just wanted to share. The pictures, not the cakes.

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Panic at the fabric shop

We've been potty training.

I say "we've been potty training" instead of "Berry's been potty training" because as any parent will attest, there's nothing like toilet training a toddler to get the whole family involved.

Once you've mopped enough floors and changed enough outfits, you're pretty keen to wash your hands of the whole deal.

"I go potty!" becomes your fire drill – not your workday fire drill where you wander around asking, "Is this a real one? What's going on? Did they tell us about this? Do we really have to go outside?" No way – at the words "I go potty" you swing into three-alarm action, running with your toddler to the bathroom and morphing into the most super-efficient right-hand-man ever.

The worst times are when we're out shopping. After the sprint to the nearest bathroom, my spiel goes something like this: "Ok ok, this one's open. Oops, no, it's yucky. Ok this one. Don't touch the door! Dirty. Don't touch the wall! Dirty, dirty. Ok, up we go. No hands on the seat, honey! Germs. Yucky. No no, no hands on the seat!"

Et cetera...

Sometimes we can avoid the public bathroom circus by using the "emergency potty" that I keep in the way-back of our Pilot (a la Jon & Kate Plus Eight). To the uninitiated, keeping a toddler-toilet in the car might seem bizarre – but yesterday it absolutely saved us.

Mum (who's visiting from Australia – more on that gloriousness later) and I took the kids with us to Hancock Fabrics to buy buttons and a zip for the dresses Mum's making for Berry. Short distance, short trip, should've been no problem.

Well.

Mum was standing at the checkout and Berry had followed me to the fabric counter near the back of the store, where I was replacing a bolt of material. I wedged it in place on the rack and turned around to see my toddler pushing her whole outfit down around her knees – tunic, shorts, the whole shebang. "What are you doing!" I gasped.

"I go potty!" she said.

Behind the fabric counter?!

I did the fastest toddler-carrying sprint ever – around startled shoppers, past the checkout, through the front doors (yeah, I pushed when it said "Pull") and out across the car park. We made it to the back of the Pilot in the nick of time. Crisis averted.

Say what you will about the potty-in-the-SUV concept... after yesterday, I think it's genius.

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Two-year-old, overheard...

"Hiiii Kickbaby, I like you diaper... I like you tummy too. It soft and clean."

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Big big boy

Kickbaby would like to announce that, thanks to six weeks of diligent and continuous eating, he weighs 13lbs 9oz.

That's 95th percentile, folks. That's big.

It's not quite as impressive as his Uncle Jules, who weighed an astonishing 16lbs at six weeks old (I am not making this up) but it's still a pretty inspiring effort.

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Two kids, zero sanity

The Trying Not To Lose My Mind Project is ongoing – a daily battle, if you will.

Usually the fight is more on the Berry front than the Kickbaby front. Berry likes to reserve her most spectacular performances for the following occasions: (1) when I'm feeding Kickbaby and therefore anchored to the couch; (2) when I'm frantically rushing to get everyone clean and fed and dressed and out the door on time; and (3) when I'm worn out and trying to get dinner ready at the end of the day, short on patience and coping skills.

It's excellent, really.

I've resorted to grabbing her mid-tantrum, tossing her in the air and calling her "the Pirate Berry", whereupon we say "aaarrrrg" a lot, and she laughs uproariously and declares herself "happy again". And I say: whatever works.

The other thing in the plus column, as my brother points out, is all the love.

I was sitting on the couch with Kickbaby in one arm and Berry cuddled up on the other doing Bob The Builder magnet stories, when she looked up at me and said, "Oh mum-mum, you make-me happy."

It might not save my mind, but it sure made my heart feel better.

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Wait – I'm meant to update this thing?

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Sorry, I've been extremely busy trying not to lose my mind.

Although sometimes it's hard to navigate the line between "I'm trying not to lose my mind" and "Oops, there it went..."

So who knows. Maybe it's already too late.


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Berry: big sister

Kickbaby is still being outstandingly easy (I'm still not counting on this to last, although it's wonderful) and Berry is an especially doting big sister who takes her duties very seriously. She defended him from the "masses" at preschool yesterday afternoon with a long and fierce display of arm-flailing and sobbing and tearful shouting: "MY baby! No take my baby broyer! "

You know, because crowds of toddlers are known for their kidnapping skills.

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Evans Family 2.0

I used to think it was a pretty odd decision, on my parents' part, to have five kids. Now that I have two of my own, I've changed my mind. They're officially insane.

I really have nothing to complain about; two kids makes an average family, and we're actually adjusting to this new life quite well. At home, Berry likes to kiss Kickbaby on the top of his head, stroke his arm, say "Are-you okaaaaay, little man?" and "Kickbaby hungry?" and generally mother-hen him in her own two-year-old way. She reads him books and draws lots of pictures of our new-improved family. At preschool she has photos of Kickbaby to show her teachers, and she likes to tell people about her little broy-er.

For his part, Kickbaby likes to sleep (it's still Week One, so I'm not assuming this will last) and eat and eat and eat and eat (this will last). He also likes to be carried around constantly and not be put down during his naps, thankyouverymuch.

Nathan and his dad have picked up the slack on paying attention to Berry while I'm pinned to the couch, and I've managed to persuade her that the reason I can't carry her around anymore is because I have a sore back – I showed her the band-aid left from my epidural as proof. That's one doctor's order that actually makes me a bit sad, despite all my complaints about how heavy Berry's getting. And despite the fact I have no free hands anyway.


I was lucky – so lucky – this time to have a perfectly smooth labor and delivery. As horrendously botched and traumatic as Berry's birth was, this was the other end of the spectrum. I love the Keesler Medical Center L&D department so much, I think someone should marry it.

I'm waking up with Kickbaby several times a night, as opposed to the hundreds (oh, I'm sure it was hundreds) of times I woke up each night with newborn Berry, and he's very easily settled. I'm not frightened of breaking the baby this time either (Berry was born five weeks too soon, weighed 4lbs 15oz, and had serious medical issues).

So all of this is making the transition to mother-of-two about as bump-free as it can be. I still have mind-wanderings in the middle of the night where I worry about how I'll share my attention between them, how I'll make them both feel loved enough and, to a lesser degree, how I'll handle working plus two kids. But since everyone else seems to have figured all this out, I'm pretty sure I'll get there too.

But when I extrapolate all this to five kids, I can't actually wrap my head around it. I'm deeply grateful for my brothers and sister, but my Mum and Dad were nuts.

So, note to all the grandparents: we're done. This is it. Enjoy.