First day

The Boy started at his new daycare today. I went into this morning expecting the worst, hoping to be pleasantly surprised.

I was not surprised.

The Boy started whining and fretting as we walked into his new school. His classroom is about five feet from the entrance, and as I walked him toward it -- "C'mon Boy, we're going to your new classroom to meet your NEW teacher and your NEW friends. Let's go play!" -- The Boy shouted, "No! No! No! NO!" He pulled against my arm and dragged his feet on the floor. Fat, hot tears rolled off his face and plopped onto my hands as I picked him up. Miss Robin's promise of sponge painting and blocks quieted him for a second, but the tears started again as soon as I leaned in to give him a kiss goodbye.

Miss Robin, who has four kids of her own and has lots of experience comforting teary mommas leaving their babies for the first time, said to The Boy as I left, dry-eyed, "Oh, your mommy is so emotionally mature."

Uh. No. Remember this life lesson from my own mother? Laugh, cry or puke. That is totally what happened this morning. I wanted to bawl my eyes out right along with my baby. But my crying was only going to make The Boy's worse. My stomach lurched and dropped as I walked out of the school, his wails trailing behind me. But I had to go to work and didn't have a change of clothes if puke got on my shirt. And really, I knew he was going to be OK. He was OK. His teachers at pick-up said he was great today, playing and sleeping and eating without problems. He was more excited than usual to see me, but otherwise unscathed, as I expected this morning when I took a deep breath and I laughed.

I sounded a little hysterical and my eyes stung a little, but I laughed. And I felt a little better.

Second time around

The Lad already is a different kid from The Boy. Experienced parents, quit rolling your eyes. I knew this one would be different, but it's still interesting to me how soon individuality appears.

By this point, I was starting to feel The Boy's hiccups, which he had all the time. ALL the time. The Lad has not had hiccups, but does these stealth karate chops to my internal organs, making me feel like my intestines are up in my throat. The Boy stayed pretty active, but was never one to respond to requests. The Lad does not like to be poked; poke him and he'll poke you. I get the sense The Lad is going to be, lord help us, more ornery than The Boy.

But The Lad isn't the only thing different about this pregnancy. I'm different. The husband and I are different parents this time around. When I was this far along with The Boy, we already had painted his room, ordered a crib and bedding and picked out names. This time around, The Lad's name still is under debate, and the husband refers to the kid's eventual room as the "messy one" because it's piled with baby junk, charity boxes and other crap that has to find a home. I haven't read a single one of the pregnancy books I devoured in a weekend in my third month with The Boy, and my only concession to the idea of a pregnancy diet is to get on the scales at the grocery store once a week to make sure I'm not blimping up unnoticed. I did go get paint chips, so that's some movement in the right direction.

I just have this feeling like, "Eh, it'll get done."

I'm waiting breathlessly for the moment when that changes to the feeling of, "OMG! I'm having a baby and NOTHING is ready."

A whole new me

Have I neglected to tell you that my cherub is sleeping through the night?

Maybe it's because I didn't want to jinx it. But after about a month, I feel like I can proudly proclaim, she is sleeping through the night. It took us a bit of time. And by us, I mean me. When I really decided it was time, it took, um, one night. She cried for a little bit and then the next night the angels (quietly) sang as Peanut snoozed.

After going through this, this and this. After a year.

Which means I am sleeping through the night, for the most part. I still wake up every once in awhile but it is getting better.

I feel better than I have in a long time. I don't feel quite so suicidal first thing in the morning. I feel refreshed and normal. I don't fall asleep at 7 p.m.

But I have noticed something curious that may or may not be related. I'm not sure if this is a side effect of not sleeping for a year or what, but names are falling out of my brain. I will be in the middle of a conversation and know exactly who I am talking about but can't recall the person's name.

A recent conversation:

Me: That girl? Who sings Sk8r boi? Where it isn't spelled right? And she married that guy from that Canadian band and now no one knows who they are?

Friend: Avril Lavigne?

Me: Yes, her.

(later)

Friend: Who sings this song?

Me: You know the band? Where they are short? And the one guy married Ashlee Simpson? And they had a baby?

Friend: Fall Out Boy?

Me: Yes, that's it.

I don't know what is more concerning: The fact that I can't remember names or that I'm talking about Avril Lavigne, Pete Wentz and Ashlee Simpson.

Daycare blues

I walked into daycare grinning last Friday because, for the first time, The Boy had said he wanted to come and play with one of his little classmates. "Ri-Ri play," The Boy said repeatedly as we pulled into parking lot. Just the night before, I had told friends how much I liked our daycare and how well The Boy was doing at it.

I should have known things were going too smoothly.

The director stopped me and a couple other parents in the hall as we walked in to tell us the church the daycare rents from had been sold and the new church wanted nothing to do with the business. We parents had a week to find other places for our children. The director expected to reopen, but couldn't tell us when or where.

Inside, I was thinking, "WTF! OMG! A FLIPPING WEEK! WHERE THE HELL AM I GOING TO FIND DAYCARE IN A WEEK?! WTF!" Outside, I nodded politely, commiserated and dropped The Boy off with a hug, a kiss and a smile as usual.

The search started immediately and included everything from temporary care in our home by one of the daycare ladies to Montessori schools. One school seemed great except for the fact that not a single child was crying; they were like Stepford kids. Michelle thinks I'm crazy to have let this lack of wails bother me, but it seemed unnatural. Another place, originally a top contender for price and convenience, was nixed because it has no outdoor playground. How can my kid not have a chance to play outside when we live in freaking FLORIDA? We finally decided on a church-run daycare that comes well-recommended -- and had both a working playground and crying babies on the day we toured.

Our new daycare seems really nice and I feel confident The Boy will do OK there. But I still think this transition is going to suck.

I know The Boy is only 19 months old. I know in a couple weeks or months, he won't know remember his old daycare. I know toddlers are resilient creatures. But oh! he's breaking my heart. Every morning this week, his last at the school he's been in since he was 12 weeks old, The Boy walks in saying, "Ri-Ri play, Ri-Ri play." He gets hugged by another one of his little playmates as soon as he gets in the room. Every night, he hugs his teachers and yells, "Bye-bye!" as he walks out the door.

We've mentioned that next week he's going to a new school to play with new friends. We'll talk more about it with him this weekend. But I know Monday's going to be rough, for all of us. Anyone have any ideas how to make things go a little easier?

New kind of birth control

You want to know the best birth control? A screaming child trapped in a two-hour car trip.

Seriously. They should just make middle school and high school students sit helplessly in a car while a child screams with no indication of what could possibly be wrong. None of this carrying an egg or bag of flour around. Noise must be made to truly appreciate it.

The husband decided that we needed to make more family traditions so he suggested that we go pick blueberries near his mother's house two hours away. I agreed. It was a thoughtful idea.

We tried to time it during nap time. (Does this sound familiar? Anyone else still recovering from the day at the zoo?) But Peanut decided she had other plans that did not include being strapped in a car seat for two hours. I even sat in the back seat and tried reading to her.

She was not having it. It started off as just fussiness for the first hour. The second, however, was a full-out, red-in-the-face screech session. The husband told me I should let her cry out. Instead, I started crying. I know, I know. It is just such a helpless feeling. She was beside herself and it didn't seem like there was an end in site. For anyone. At one point, my husband mumbled something about jumping out of the moving vehicle.

The tension finally broke for the husband and I when I read her a book that said "My face. Should I make a happy or sad face?" Both of us started laughing despite Peanut's protest.

Once we were out of the car, she was fine. We have no idea what the problem was except that she didn't want to be in the car and she was determined that we shouldn't want to be in there either.

And, incidentally, it might have helped my baby fever a bit. Remember this? It's gotten worse. Three people I know had babies this weekend. And Hillary finding out she is having The Lad? Oy, people.

But after that car ride, I think I might be good for a month. Or a year.

It's always funny

The Boy, my real rotten boy, is back. I had two incident reports from daycare and when we came home, he only wanted me to PLAY! not fix dinner or put anything away. I put him and his blanky in his chair for a Moment while I changed out of my work clothes. I had every intention of coming out and playing, as my chores were done and he was calming down, but my work cell rang. I had to take it. It was an interview I'd been waiting on all day.

The Boy's wails gathered strength again as I started my interview. I closed the bedroom door on his yells and went on with my work. I had to turn up the phone's volume twice during the conversation and by the end, I wasn't really paying attention to the source. My guilt was too loud.

I came out of the bedroom after the call ended -- maybe 10, 15 minutes later -- to find The Boy still in his chair, red-faced, tear-streaked and sobbing for MOMMA! I apologized and picked him up, explaining I had to work and he couldn't just scream like that. He calmed down and wiped his snot and tears on his hands and my shirt. But no smile came.

"I'm sorry," I said again. "But Momma had to take that call. Trust me, I'd rather have been playing with you, but I had to work. It's just poopy."

He giggled.

"Poopy, poopy, poopy!" I said, grinning.

He laughed harder.

"You forgive me?"

"Yah!" The Boy said. "Poopy!"

Roaring away

Hillary called me excitedly to tell me that we had been tagged. Clueless but Hopeful, a wonderful, sincere and honest lady and mother asked us in her blog to roar about ourselves.

We are supposed to find something extraordinary about ourselves, something sexy that we might not always see.

So here goes.

Michelle
Trying to figure out what I was going to write has taken me a long time. I've accepted the fact that I will probably never wear a size 4. I've accepted that I will probably always have large breasts (even when I'm not breastfeeding) and that I will always have curves. I am not and will not be sexy like the women in magazines.

But that doesn't mean I'm not sexy. I've realized that there is more to being sexy and extraordinary than a tag in my pants. I am (mostly) comfortable with who I am. I am more confident than ever and motherhood has helped me gain that confidence.

I am a full-time working mother who is successfully managing to raise a child, have a great relationship with my husband and continue with a decent career. I breastfed for a year, lost all my pregnancy weight and then some, I'm writing more than I've ever done and still reading regularly. I haven't lost who I am but become a better version of myself.

Have I bemoaned decisions? Second guessed myself? Um, yes. Almost daily.

But something changed around the time Peanut turned a year old. Things got easier. Maybe it's where she is developmentally. Maybe I just got the hang of things. Whatever it is, I don't think I've ever felt this good about my life and about who I am.

I can do this. And that is something that makes me feel extraordinary.


Hillary

I love this picture. I love the colors and the circles within circles. I love The Boy's fat little baby belly. But I love this picture because I look glamorous in it. I'm curled up like I always sit. I don't think I'd even showered yet that day. I threw on that bathing suit and big floppy hat so I could play in my drought-parched yard and splash in a cheap pool with my son, and still, somehow, I look glamorous.

What I didn't know -- but suspected -- when this picture was taken is that The Lad already was in residence in my belly. So, here I am in this picture, just a mother with her children, but I look and feel better than I have in my adult life. I've often said, or been told, my smile or my eyes are my best feature. But you can look at this picture, where both are hidden, and still see an attractive woman. I like how long my legs look and how sharp my shoulders are.

I was more than ready to leave high school when I left. I was so anxious to get out of college, I finagled my schedule and graduated a quarter early. I longed to live with The Husband, get married, have a baby well before we did any of those things. Partly, I'm just an impatient person. But also, I'm an optimist. I always feel like there's something good, maybe even better, ahead of me. I still feel like that, however, for the first time in my life, I'm content in my own skin, in my own life.

I'll be a mess later this week when I have to look for a new daycare for The Boy -- long story -- while I'm dealing with a deadline and another big project at work. In a few months, the post-partum hormones will probably knock me on my ass. But, eh, whatever. I have a floppy hat and a baby pool. I can be glamorous.

So roar with us ladies. We'd like to hear from you and you and you.

Big-boy bed

The Boy on the truck that brought his big-boy bed.

The Boy checking out his big-boy bed.

The Boy looking very little in his big-boy bed.

My little monkey, who usually rolls all over his crib and sleeps with his butt in the air or legs propped up on the bars, lay still in one place last night, right where we tucked him in. He woke up in a good mood and didn't attempt to climb out on his own, though I think that was just the newness of it all. The first thing he said this morning wasn't "eat!" or "up!" as usual, but "Bed. I in bed." The Boy is obviously pretty impressed with himself.

Maybe it's all the talk of being a big boy in a big-boy bed. Or maybe we're just having an especially good morning. But The Boy has been positively angelic so far today. He ate breakfast without complaints or whines. He's read two books. He's played by himself. He's gotten toys on his own.

I'm beginning to think someone switched my kid in the night.

Coming home

All the front lights were on when I pulled into the drive. As I walked into the house, the husband called hello from our kitchen.

"How was the movie?" he asked.

"Good, sweet," I said. I'd gone to see 500 Days of Summer.

"You're good and sweet," he said, giving me a kiss.

"How was The Boy?"

"He was good." The husband gave me a rundown of the bedtime routine, which amounted to The Boy getting tired and agreeing night-night was for the best.

"But then," the husband said, "he stood up in the crib and started rattling the bars yelling, 'Momma, momma!' like he was trying to tell you to get in there and say goodnight. Finally, I went in and told him Momma wasn't here and he needed to sleep."

---

500 Days of Summer is a good movie, a sweet movie about the highs and lows of a beginning relationship. I went with two friends, one of whom also has a little one. We talked on the way home about the pangs we felt as the movie started, realizing we'd never again feel that tingle of a new relationship, where you're talking for hours and so desperate and scared to kiss the other person a knot forms in your stomach and stretches down to your toes. But we also agreed to relief that we'd never have to go through the bottom-dropping break-ups. Getting out for a night with the girls was lovely, but we were happy to go home to being wives and mommas, we agreed.

I meant it when I said it in the car.

I felt how lucky I was to be able to say it when I walked in the house.

Because I don't have just one thing to talk about

We took Peanut for her one year check up today. All is well. She is in the 25th percentile for weight, 75th for height and 90th for head size (we are a big-headed people.)

The husband and I were slightly surprised by the weight (20 lbs. 3 oz.). She's got a baby equivalent of a beer belly and her wrists still look like they have rubber bands on them. Plus, it always looks like she's storing something in her cheeks. (To the 16-year-old Peanut reading this, momma is NOT saying you were fat. You totally pulled this look off and looked adorable.)

He did say we shouldn't let her graze and that she needs to understand that mealtime means eating together. To that, I say pfft. If she eats better during some meals because she's walking around, I'm OK with that.

*******

A barn in our living room has mooed at us four times tonight. We aren't touching it and it's beginning to freak me out. I'm afraid I'm going to wake up with a tiny Little People cow sitting on my head.

I always had a very real fear as a child that my dolls would do bad things to me in my sleep. I would sleep with all my stuffed animals because I didn't want to offend any of them. I blame Chucky.

*******

I must go get Peanut's 1 year pictures taken this weekend or my mother is going to turn me into Children's Services. We've had mixed results with photo shoots so I'm a little anxious.

*******

The other night we asked Peanut if she was hungry. She walked over to her high chair and began pounding on it. Later that night, we asked her if she wanted to take a bath. She walked over to the staircase and began crawling right up them, something neither the husband nor I had seen her do.

I'm going to go out on a limb and say her language comprehension is developing.

*******

Peanut has almost completely dropped "momma" from her vocabulary. All day, I hear "dada, dada, dada, dada" I have to beg her to say "momma." Sometimes she replies "dada."

She already has her father's sense of humor.

Naming names

We're going with The Lad as Baby2's blog name. Thank you for all your suggestions and comments. I decided on The Lad because it stands on its own; it's not a descriptor of the baby's relationship to The Boy or his position in our family. So, The Lad it is from here on out.

Now, let's discuss something really fun -- REAL names.

I find boys' names very hard. The husband and I don't like super trendy or popular names, like Aiden and its many variations, but also are not huge fans of the old, traditional standbys for boys. And still, we tend to disagree. For instance, I actually kind of like John, but the husband vetoed me. If The Lad were a girl, his name would be decided. That penis means we're still debating.

For those of you who don't know, The Boy's real name is Rhys Owen. I love his name and it suits him, however, it was, really, the only thing we could agree on. I've been saying -- only half joking -- The Lad might end up Rhys II. Obviously, that can't happen, so we're open to suggestions.

Here's what I like: Walt, Ward, Everett (I lean toward one-syllable names. I love The Boy's cousins' names -- Lane and Shaw.)

Here's what the husband likes: Desmond, Nolan

Here's what we both like: Gram, Avett

Other things that have been suggested/considered: Price, Nash

What do you suggest/like best?

Dirty, stinky boys

Baby2 has a penis. The Boy is getting a little brother.

On the ultrasound, Baby2 appeared perfectly healthy. He also seems to be perfectly rotten. He rolled and kicked and poked so much against the ultrasound wand's pressure, I nearly got sick. My forehead got sweaty and my tongue got thick and I had to roll over on my side to feel better. Meanwhile, The Boy was bored with the black-and-white pictures of his brother and was pushing a chair around the room. I'm not sure which child was busier. The husband and I are going to have our hands full with these dirty, stinky boys.

I'd post a picture of Baby2's cute little fetus profile or his little toes, but that would require a scanner, so you'll have to wait.

In the meantime, a question: What shall we call this boy? I need a real name, too, but right now, I'm looking for a blog name. I don't use The Boy's real name here, though many of you know it, because I figure it's not fair for me to fill up Google searches of the Boy's name with tales of diaper rash and tantrums. So, I call him The Boy, something the husband and I have always done. ("Is The Boy down for the night? Does The Boy need a butt change?") But my mom wondered what the heck I would do if another boy came along. I jokingly said he, Baby2, could be The Lad. What about The Brother? What do you think?

Itchy belly

Five months

I'm finally past the maybe-just-bloated state of early pregnancy. I'm wearing the belly band with regularity and am into maternity clothes. (And, can I just say: A POX on whoever decided the only way to keep your pants up while pregnant is with a giant elastic band pulled up to your boobs. Seriously. How is that a good idea? Pregnant bellies = itchy bellies and elastic over an itchy belly = torture, which is why I only buy under-the-belly maternity pants.) Most of my tops aren't maternity at all, but just fashionably blousy, which is fine, but causes me to wonder why anyone who isn't pregnant would want to look pregnant. Also, I think some people still are wondering if maybe I've just gained some weight. Whatever. We know the truth.

Baby2 is moving regularly. It seemed to reciprocate a high five from The Boy tonight, tapping some limb or another against my belly button. We'll see how wiggly Baby2 is tomorrow during the ultrasound ...

She'd rather carry a towel

A list of things I don't understand about my daughter:

• How she knows the exact moment I drift off to sleep and picks that time to cry out once, waking me up. This happen three to four times a week. She doesn't need anything but cries enough to startle me.
• How she knows when we give her the fake remote control. She doesn't want the realistic one minus batteries. Just the one that will change the channel in the middle of my Lifetime movie ... I mean CNN.
• How one day she will gobble something up and then next day act like I'm feeding her poison.
• How she is able to eat almost anything with three budding teeth.
• How she wants nothing to do with the soft pink blanket her grandma got her but instead would rather carry around a dish towel or a sock.
• How she would rather walk around pausing to pick up food off the highchair tray sitting on the floor then just sit in her highchair and eat.
  

What does you child do that you don't understand?

Nesting

Tonight, we put together a new nightstand for the husband. It is doubling as a filing cabinet so we can empty the one in the guest room.

The guest room is going to be Baby2's room. I would love to go dump the drawers of the desk in there right now, but am pretty sure the husband would divorce me if I start such a big project this late at night.

I also realized we'll have to take the crib apart to put in The Boy's new twin, which is going to be purchased this weekend. I'm not looking forward to dismantling the crib, but I am eager to get the big-boy bed in the room. Also, The Boy's new bed requires new sheets, and that means a trip to Target. I think I'm going to finally pick up the extra shelving for the garage while I'm there.

I have an intense urge to scrub everything with Murphy's Oil Soap.

My little parasite

Baby2 put on a little show for the Daddyman last night. The husband felt Baby2 kick for the first time, and then the kid continued to roll and kick and punch for about 10 minutes straight. It's the most continuous movement I've felt this pregnancy.

The pants that had previously remained baggy despite my expanding belly fastened this morning, but cut a half inch into me. I went to work with a rubberband pulling them together and a shirt covering the gap.

My mother, grandmother and sister told me all weekend I'm bigger this time around and carrying higher.

---

This pregnancy is becoming real to me. I'm afraid Baby2 is about to get a little more real than I would like.

The ultrasound is scheduled next week. I have given into the demands of the husband, the grandmas, my sister, Michelle and everyone else in the free world, it seems, and agreed to find out the sex this time around. Practically speaking, I know finding out makes sense. But I liked being surprised. As I told a friend, not knowing allowed me to wrap my head around being a mother without worrying specifically about how to raise a strong woman or an honorable man. And, if I'm being honest, knowing the sex kind of skeeves me out.

Pregnancy is creepy -- beautiful, awesome and empowering, but creepy. I am sharing my body with another living thing. That's weird.

I'm OK with sharing my body with an abstract baby. An abstract baby has no sex. It's just a wee blob floating around growing body parts, and I'm cool with that. But give that blob a sex and -- lord help me -- a name, and I freak out. Because PEOPLE have names and a sex. Oh my god! I'm sharing my body with another person. I don't really even like hugs that much; how am I supposed to be OK with another person hanging out inside me?

When I was younger -- and wanting to shock people -- I referred to fetuses as parasites. Pregnancy hasn't changed my view much. My babies are living off me; they are parasites. The difference is they are MY parasites and I love them. I don't need -- don't really want -- to know anything else.

I've been telling Baby2 there's nothing wrong with a little modesty.

Missing my 500 calorie burn

I've put on five pounds in two weeks.

No, I am not the pregnant one.

I am the one who is adjusting back to my normal, slow as molasses metabolism after breastfeeding, which according to some sources burns 500 calories a day.

I haven't had the healthiest eating habits for almost two years. I spent most of pregnancy eating what I could - usually pretzels, carrots, Clementine oranges and Propel water drinks - and throwing up anything else. Daily. For almost seven months.

Then, after having Peanut, I realized the beauty of breastfeeding (you know, besides the whole bonding with my baby and giving her nutrition from my own body.) I lost all of the baby weight (about 30 pounds) and then another five pounds before I went back to work. I could eat pretty much anything I wanted and not gain anything. In fact, in the early days, I ate all of the time. I remember being ravenous as soon as I woke up each morning.

Now, I'm still hungry but it's not burning off so quickly. Or at all apparently.

It probably doesn't help that I don't work out. (Gasp!) It's awful and embarrassing really. I know I've said I would start doing before but I haven't. I am going to need to or else be even more embarrassed when I can't fit into my clothes anymore.

According to this article, to make up the 500 calories I'm not burning each day I would have to golf for an hour and 45 minutes, row for 55 minutes, box for 45 minutes, or take an hour-long aerobics class.

Or maybe I'll just get pregnant again so I can put this off for another two years.

Kidding.

The husband and I are going to start walking more at night with Peanut. Our neighborhood is super hilly and would probably do wonders on my glutes. Plus I do have Exercise TV On Demand that I could do a 20 minute work out each day.

I know, I know. I'll have more energy and feel better about myself. Blah blah blah.

I'll still miss my easy-peasy 500 calorie burn.

Matrons, not maids

As Michelle mentioned, we were bridesmaids this last weekend for our friend T. The three of us were inseparable in college, and T was in both our weddings. There was no way we could miss hers.

But don't let our smiling faces fool you. Moms are not cut out to be bridesmaids.

The husband has a theory that newborns are like drunks, soused to the point of needing their stomachs pumped, completely incoherent and unable to perform the most basic of personal care. As babies age, they sober up. I laugh at the husband, but seriously, The Boy now -- with his impulsiveness, basic speech, still developing motor control and love of putting things on his head -- does bear a resemblance to his father during our drunken college days.

I bring this up only to explain that, as a mom, I'm kind of dealing with a drunk on a daily basis. But my drunk is cute and sometimes cuddly and shrunk to a manageable size. Full-size drunks just annoy me these days, and weddings tend to be full of drunks. In this particular wedding, the bride and groom rented a "party bus" so the entire wedding party and their guests could get lubricated before the reception. A lovely gesture, but one wasted on this nondrinking mom. Watching adults become full-size drunks on a "party bus" just isn't fun when you can't drink because Baby2 (aka Drunk2) is on the way. The third time one of the groomsmen offered me a beer, I actually weighed, for a moment, the amount of damage it might do to Baby2 against the improvement some alcohol might make in getting me through the three-hour bus tour. I decided one beer wasn't going to help.

Michelle was able to partake on the party bus, however, she and the other bridesmaids with children demonstrated the dangers of drinking and mothering. They all were lightweights.

We got on the bus about 2:30 p.m. By 2:45 p.m., Michelle was starting to slur a bit as she told me, "You have to stop me. I'm a mother." By 3 p.m., I was being offered my first beer and being assured drinking it would be fine by several people -- including a father who I know would have died if his wife, also a bridesmaid, had imbibed while she was pregnant. "My mom drank and I'm OK," he said. "My mom, too!" another bridesmaid chirped. By 3:15 p.m., Michelle was hugging on me like a lecherous high school boy and saying she needed to get out more. At 3:48 p.m., we passed a big, fancy brick McDonald's, and Michelle and the other mother bridesmaids were THRILLED and EXCITED when the bus stopped there for a pee break.

The best line came at 3:52 p.m. when the aforementioned father looked at his slightly tipsy wife and asked who was watching their 11-month-old son.

"I don't know!" she yelled. She shifted in her seat and her strap fell down her shoulder. "I feel like such a slut!"

We started the day at 8 a.m. for hair and make-up. We endured an outdoor ceremony in the rain. Our dresses were not designed for breastfeeding boobs or expanding baby bellies. By 9 p.m., just a couple songs into the reception, I was DONE. A late bedtime for me these days is 10 p.m. and we had an hour-drive home. I felt rude, but I had to say goodbye. I missed the garter and bouquet toss. I missed YMCA and the Chicken Dance. I missed the last dance. Michelle and her husband weren't far behind.

I'm not even 30, but I am, in fact, a matron. I am married. I have a child and another on the way. I love my friends, but I'm glad T is the last one who should need my services as a bridesmaid. There's a reason they're called MAIDS, not matrons.

Doe-doe and other updates

Just a quick update on some things before I entertain you with stories of a drunken Michelle:

1. The armadillo, which The Boy called a doe-doe and had taken residence in our front flower beds, appears to have found a new home. Armadillos must not like the smell of mothballs. Unfortunately, I also don't like the smell of mothballs and now have to inhale it every time I go out my front door.

2. The Boy's last foray as a lap-baby on a plane went well. He's a good traveler. He slept through most of the flights and didn't kick the seats or whine much. That being said, I am not sad to say goodbye to carrying a 30-pound, squirming toddler on my lap in a narrow airplane seat.

Oh! and suckers seemed to stave off hurting, popping ears during take off and landing.

3. The potty is getting a lot of use in our house -- as a toy. The Boy does a lot of "mo-wing" with it, however, he also sat on it this morning and pretended to wipe his bottom with a piece of tissue. We're not pushing the issue, just letting him play with the potty and see us when we use the toilet. My sister thinks I should be more hopeful than I am about potty-training after The Boy announced at dinner the other night, "I pooing." There was, indeed, poo.

4. The Boy might not have been enamored of Peanut this weekend, but I was very impressed with Michelle's little girl. She's a tough cookie. My nephews, ages 3 and 2, and The Boy accidentally ran over Peanut with toy trucks, threw sand in her hair and tripped her, and she just kept coming back for more, the perfect mix of girly-girl and tomboy.

Lock your doors. Clean your house

I had a sinking feeling as a pulled up to our house this afternoon.

The front door was standing wide open.

Being a former crime reporter and married to a current one, I thought the worst. I didn't even bother to get out of the car and instead backed it up on to the street.

I called the husband - his cell, work cell, and desk phone - and got no answer. He was stuck at work since he didn't tell me he needed the keys to the car that he drives home from work. So I left with my set in the other car and he had to wait for a co-worker to bring him home since I didn't want to drive 30+ minutes one way to give him the keys.

I called the non-emergency police line and explained the situation. The dispatcher assured me I was doing the right thing while Peanut screamed in the back seat.

The police arrived within a few short minutes. The officer walked up to the screen door and tried to open it. It was locked.

While I was sending prayers of thanks up, I felt very stupid. We forgot to lock the interior door, which must have blown open in a storm, but somehow managed to lock the screen door. The officer walked through the house nonetheless and came out to tell me all looked fine.

He said he would walk through it with me again so I could confirm that nothing had been taken.

I'm not sure how he was able to determine that everything was fine given the state of our house.

Toys littered the front room. Two suitcases with with clothes coming out of them were at the bottom of the basement stairs from our weekend out of town. Peanut's room had clothes strewn about and a drawer wide open where the husband was apparently in a hurry this morning and didn't approve of the outfit I laid out for her. The television cabinet in our room was open and DVDs and other things had spilled out from where Peanut entertained herself while her father got ready for work. The bed was unmade and clothes were on it.

But the best: My underwear sat in the middle of the bedroom floor where I tore them off in a hurry this morning after I realized you could see them through my white pants.

I tried to make a joke about how astute the officer must be to look past the wreck of my house to realize no one had actually broken in. He laughed and said he understood but I was mortified nonetheless.

And as soon as he left, I cleaned the house.

So the moral of the story kids: Lock your doors. Clean your house.

Destined for each other? Probably not

Hillary and I got to see each other for the first time since December over the weekend. Our college roommate got married - congratulations T and M! - and we were both bridesmaids*.

We also got to bring our children together. I betrothed Peanut to The Boy shortly after we found out we were having a girl. (Lucas refuses to acknowledge this as he is working on something that will forever keep her his little girl. I told him to ask my dad how that worked out for him.) In the deal with the Hillary and her husband, I think the dowry included a goat and a few cases of beer.

The first time they met, they were too young to interact too much.

December 2008

This time, they interacted. Or rather, my daughter tried to kiss The Boy who was having none of it. Peanut loves other children and even if she doesn't know them, will go right up to them and get up in their faces. I instructed her to give her future husband a kiss, which she interpreted as grab him by the front of his shirt and almost knock him over. The Boy's response "No, no, no" while he quickly pushed her away and tried to back up. This is apparently not his first encounter with overly aggressive women as he has a little girl at daycare who is a fan of him, according to Hillary.

Woman, back off of me.

Seriously, tell her to chill.

It will be a funny story her father can tell during the wedding toast. If he ever comes around.

*Hillary will have more details on the wedding since she was sober and I was, um, not. In my defense, it was the first time I really drank since St. Patrick's Day 2007. My tolerance is a little low after nine months of pregnancy and a year of breast feeding.

Leaving on a jet plan

The Boy is very excited to be flying on a plane to see his cousins. I am ... well, I'm excited to see everyone and praying traveling with the kiddo is as easy this time around as it has been in the past.

We're skipping the stroller this time around and traveling light, carry-on only. I've ditched the purse and the diaper bag for a giant shoulder bag. It was cheap -- $7 at Target -- and cute, but has no dividers, so I'm using gallon-size ziplocs to keep things from falling into a clump. One bag is filled with diapers and wipes. Another has crayons, books, a squishy ball, two cars, a slinky and other random toys for The Boy. A third has assorted snacks, including raisins and graham crackers. I do not have a book for myself because I'm being realistic; The Boy is flying as a lap-baby and I don't think reading is on my agenda.

Wish us luck!

If you do the math, make it work for you

I did a bad thing the other day.

I calculated out how many hours I spend during the work week with Peanut while she is awake and how many hours I spend away from her. Guess which one is greater?

The husband and I were talking about finally making time for us to get away. I've realize we need a break together. Our relationship is stronger now because of Peanut, but we still need some time just the two of us to do more than run errands. We need to go on a date, something we have done once since Peanut was born.

Now that weaning is complete (and with few problems I might add), we decided to make a date together this month. We talked about the logistics. I'm still reluctant to leave Peanut with anyone but relatives. How long we would go? A day? A night? A weekend?

We talked about how hard it is to leave her and how much we would miss her. Then I did the math. I spend approximately 20 waking hours with Peanut Monday through Friday and about 50 hours away from her. That's with getting up at 5 a.m. to be at work at 6:30 a.m. so that I can be done by 3:30 p.m.

Imagine how that made me feel.

But at the same time, I know that I don't want to be a stay at home mom. I enjoy my work and I've always wanted a career. My job affords me flexibility but is also challenging. My job helps us pay the bills and save up for our future together including Peanut's college education and wedding (to the Boy. It's already been decided, kids. Get on board.).

Besides, she gets to play with other kids all day. She'd get bored with just me. Heck some nights she gets bored with just me. She's learning social interaction and all kinds of fun things from the kids at the babysitter's (who we love. Have I told you that lately, B? Seriously, you are wonderful.)

Hillary helped remind me of some of this and told me that numbers aren't always black and white. So rather than let myself be depressed by the stats, I decided to really examine them.

If I count up all the time I spend writing about Peanut in a week while she is asleep, I feel like I can add another 5 hours to my time with her so that's 25 hours. And then, figure the time she's napping while I'm at work. That's about 2.5 hours a day times 5 so subtract 12.5 hours from 50 and that 37.5.

Looking a little better.

Plus, we might as well add in the weekends. That's about 20 hours if I subtract the nap time (just trying to keep it all fair). And then I would need to add in the times I go in after she's been asleep awhile, pick her up and snuggle with her awhile. I probably do that an hour total each week. And then add in another hour of getting up through the nights to give her the pacifiers she's chucked out of her crib.

So really, I'm with her 47 hours a week and away from her 37.5.

It's not perfect but it works for us. And in the end, that's what really matters.

(And I promise, honey, this won't stop us from going on a date in August. And I won't make you go see Harry Potter. I love you.)

Full arms, full belly

After a long day of errands and "play, Momma, play" and some fussing and some reading, The Boy sat next to me on the couch while the Daddyman fixed dinner and I talked to my sister on the phone. He wasn't quite ready to stop rough-housing and he buried his face in my belly and I could feel his teeth, not quite biting down but not quite not. I tapped my fingers on his cheek and said sternly, "You do NOT bite," and he cried and cried so my sister said, "Oh you're a mean momma." The Boy quieted as we talked about his equally ornery cousins. His body curled up against mine as he sucked on his blanky and nursed his grievances, but he threw his arm up to touch my face as if to say I was forgiven. He was asleep by the time the conversation ended and Daddyman had dinner on the table.

We tried to wake him, not wanting our always-hungry Boy to need to eat! eat! eat! in the middle of the night, but he was too far gone. He refused the chicken, refused vegetables, refused even milk as tears streaked his face. So, we put him to bed. Only that wasn't right either. The Boy was stuck between up! and night-night, dragged unwillingly from sleep but not ready to go back.

We normally do not get him out of bed once he's in for the night, but I felt guilty for having disturbed him. I dragged him up over the crib bars and settled into the rocking chair. The Boy is so big now, his head fits under my chin and his legs scrunch up on either side of my hips and his weight, settled wrong, makes my breath shallow. I rubbed my cheek against his head, smelling him and his spit-soaked blanky, as one of his hands rubbed my arm. I whispered to The Boy about how it was time to sleep but we'd play tomorrow and how much I love him and how much fun we're going to have with his cousins and grammy and aunt Lexi this weekend. I told him how much I'm going to miss holding him someday when he's bigger than I am.

And as I hugged The Boy, Baby2 rolled in my belly. I wonder about the logistics of holding both a wee newborn and my giant toddler. They'll each outgrow my lap someday. But right now, I can hold them both at once.

Should I stay or should I go now?

The husband and I have a different view on public tantrums*.

He's laid back. Whatever. She's little. People will understand. Here, let me walk her around a little bit and if that doesn't work, let her tear apart the diaper bag throwing things every which way even if it is in the path of people walking.

I am not. I am twitchy, twirly, please, please, please, please stop crying. People are looking. Please tell me what you need. This would be a really great time to find some words and stop screaming. Please. Please. OK, we're packing it up and leaving right now. Momma loves you.

We had two incidents over the weekend. First was toy-induced, where I told Peanut she could not have the doll she picked up in the toy aisle. Admittedly, we shouldn't have let her loose in toy aisle as we had no intention of buying her anything since she just got new toys for her birthday. The husband kept walking while I tried unsuccessfully to explain to Peanut that she already had a ba-ba and that we would go home and play with her. When I took the doll away, the tears began. I quickly swooped her up and ran out of the toy aisle lest anyone give me The Look.

Later that day, we went out to eat. Peanut has a max of staying in her high chair of about 7 minutes 43 seconds. After that, she wants down. Now. No negotiating. So while we waited for our food, the husband strolled around the restaurant, which is extremely family friendly. (Unless you need to change a poopy diaper. Then you should head to your car. Not that we know from experience.)

By the time the food came, Peanut had no interest in it nor did she want to be in her high chair. Three minutes in and she wanted down again. I barely had enough time to stab a few leaves of my salad. She cried. I desperately tried to reason with her that she didn't want to be THAT child and I didn't want to be THAT mother.

I know most people are understanding. I'm understanding too. But everyone has their limit and if a kid is crying non-stop while you are trying to enjoy a meal out, you are going to eventually start giving The Look, whether you want to or not.

So once again, we rushed through the end of the meal. The husband took Peanut outside while I boxed up left overs and paid the bill.

I'm not sure I'm going to be up for a dinner out again for another five years.

*It's been funny traveling down the parenting path six months behind Hillary. The Boy was just under a year old when we started this blog. When Peanut hit that age, I started looking back at her posts for tips and/or just reassurance that it wasn't just me.

Today, after reflecting on some public meltdowns from my dear, sweet Peanut, I found what Hillary wrote about her own flight or fight experience here. It made me feel better.

Potty? Or mower?

The Boy has a potty.

I think he was more excited about the potty than he was about any of his Christmas presents. Some of that might be the development that's happened in the last six months, but seriously, The Boy was super excited about the potty.

"I pee. I pee. Try potty."

So we stripped him down and let him run around nakie. He climbed on the potty and off the potty, on and off, on and off. He never managed to go, despite his chants of "I potty. I potty. I potty," however, I was pleased with his enthusiasm.

But then we got The Boy dressed and put the potty away. The Boy found it, lifted the lid and started pushing it around the room.

"I mo-wing," he said. "Mo-wing."

I think it's a good thing I don't have my hopes up for getting The Boy potty trained before Baby2 arrives.