Christmas preparations

On night-walks the last few days, I've taught The Boy the proper response to Christmas lights, according to my family:

"Ooooooooooh, Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, Ohhhhhhh-ohhhhhhhhh."

The Boy's version was even better: "Ah, Ah, O-oh!"

---

The husband draped our own Christmas lights in the ferns and bushes and wrapped them around our palm trees. They're pretty, though a little janky with the lights stretching between the palms like an arch. The Boy liked this part best.

"We go in them!" he said, running under the arch and around and around the tree. He liked it even better when Daddyman took him through the arch and he almost could touch the lights.

---

"Are you excited to help us pick out a Christmas tree, Boy? We can have lights inside then. Are you going to help us pick out a Christmas tree?" the husband asked.

"Yep."

"And you know who's coming to visit for Christmas? Who's coming in time for Christmas?"

The Boy thought, then very quietly said, "Lad."

I was thinking Santa Claus. The husband meant Grammy and Pawpaw. But The Lad is more than welcome.

---

In preparation for The Lad's arrival, whenever it happens, I finished all my Christmas shopping early and even managed to get The Boy's birthday gift bought. I wrapped everything this afternoon and, since I had to wash The Boy's Christmas Eve jammies -- pirates! Argh!, I went ahead and washed The Lad's coming-home outfit and blanky. We're ready when he is.

Conversations around the Christmas tree

We went all lumberjack again this year and chopped down our Christmas tree today.

The experience is never as romantic and whimsical as we think it is going to be. Last year was the first year we did it. The husband wanted to start a family tradition so we loaded a sick, snotty baby and a sick, snotty mommy in the car to get a tree. After 10 minutes in the trees, I might have said something like, "Just pick out a damn tree. I feel like crap."

'Tis the season.

This year went a little better especially since the weather was decent with temps in the 50s. We thought Peanut might enjoy a ride in the sled so we took out the saw (see we are good parents) and put her in. After she fell over when I began pulling her, she decided it was not her cup of tea and wanted out.

We lasted about 20 minutes this time until Peanut had Enough of mama and dada debating the girth, tallness and fullness of each tree.

Of course we got the tree home and it needed almost a foot cut off.

Let me just say here that I am a Christmas tree snob. It is genetic. At some point in my childhood, my parents began collecting Christoper Radko ornaments. Their tree now could probably put Peanut through at least one year of state college.

And while our tree is nowhere near my parents, I still like my trees to look coordinated. We either have to have all glass ornaments or all other kinds of ornaments. I used to relegate to just gold and red ornaments but I've allowed green, silver and blue. I've already decided Peanut can have her own tree when she is older to put her homemade ornaments on.

While I was decorating the tree and trying to teach Peanut the importance of "Look, don't touch," the husband asked me what I will do when Peanut wants to pick out a family tree that resembles Charlie Brown's.

Going for something I knew he could get on board with, I said, "It is important that we teach her taste. If she thinks it is OK to pick out bad trees, she will bring home bad men."

The husband thought about it for a second and said, "So you are saying that good taste in trees equals good taste in men?"

I nodded as I examined the tree for the hundredth time trying to determine where the next glass ball would go.

"OK, fine. But don't ever talk about her bringing men home again," he said.

So we both win. I get to keep my pretty trees and he gets to live in his dream world where our daughter will never want to date.

What I'm thankful for

I'm thankful for a career that challenges me but is also fun at times.

I'm thankful for my family - my parents and my sister who are always there on the other end of the phone anytime of the day.

I'm thankful for my health, even if my mental stability is in question somedays.

I'm thankful for my friends, especially the one who pushed me to start this blog with her so we could document our adventures in motherhood together. I'm thankful for all the friends we've made and gotten back in touch with because of it.

I'm thankful for my daughter, who has an endless supply of kisses, laughs and loves, who has taught me so much in so little time and who sleeps though the night.

I'm thankful for my husband, for vowing to stand beside me 'til death do us part four years ago today, for having an endless amount of patience with me, for making me laugh when I feel like crying and for making me a better person.

Happy Thanksgiving.

What are you thankful for?

Walking the turkey

In my family, it's not Thanksgiving til the turkey has been named and walked across the kitchen counter.

I know. It's silly and weird. The first time the husband and I cooked a turkey together and I insisted on the tradition, he looked at me like I was crazy. But isn't that what traditions are about? Commemorating your family's oddities?

The turkey trot tradition has another meaning for me, too, now that I'm a parent. So much of parenting is about pretending you know what you're doing. Looking back at that first year Mom walked a headless, gutless turkey carcass across the counter, I can see that's exactly what she was doing.

I was in late elementary school, and it was the first Thanksgiving my mom had ever hosted. We always went next door to Grandma's, my dad's mom, where Mom, the aunts and we kids were relegated to clean-up duties. On top of that, Mom was not a confident cook. She fixed good food, but rarely tried new or complicated recipes, and a turkey was way beyond her repertoire.

So, of course, we -- Dad and my sister and I -- were picking on her that Thanksgiving Eve, predicting a blackened or raw turkey and wondering if we should get the Butterball helpline on speed dial. It wasn't nice but it's what our family does. We pick. I can see her, washing the turkey out in the kitchen sink, with a disgusted, befuddled look on her face. She picked the feathers off its fresh carcass, grumbling. I'm sure there was a "What the hell do I do with this thing?" muttered at least once. Lexi and I were no help, kneeling over the back of a recliner to peer over the counter that separated the living room from the kitchen.

Probably, Mom wanted to smack Dad and us kids.

But instead, she walked that dead, headless bird across the counter. She named it -- don't ask, I don't remember -- and my sister and I laughed til she was laughing. It's a wonder the bird didn't get dropped on the floor. She still didn't know what she was doing, but none of us, Mom included, were thinking about that any more. And you know, that turkey was magnificent -- a golden brown centerpiece out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

My sister's cooking the bird this year back home. It's named Tom. I imagine she'll walk it across the counter for her boys.

I'm not cooking turkey this year. We're going to friends' for the holiday dinner. But if I were, the bird would be named before I strutted it across the counter to elicit giggles from The Boy.

This is why I love the holidays. I love traditions. I love my family. I love that I get to share these things with my kiddos.

Random edition: Spelling, Elmo and no

This is how a normal conversation with Peanut goes lately:

Me: Do you want to eat?
Peanut: No.
Me: Do you want to read a book?
Peanut: No.
Me: Do you want to take a bath?
Peanut: No.
Me: Do you need a drink?
Peanut: No.
Me: Did you forget how to say any other word?
Peanut: No.

As Peanut's vocabulary expands (apple! pease! i wub ewww! Melmo! Melmo!) she seems to have settled on one simple word as her favorite. No. Even when she means yes.

You can imagine the confusion in our house right now. No?

*************
Peanut has discovered Elmo. Not Sesame Street. Just Elmo. We must fast forward the entire episode to get to Elmo's World at the end.

The husband and I have found ourselves singing the theme song frequently. He also does a great impression of Elmo dancing.

We have been slightly disturbed though by one line recently. The episode was about taking turns. Mr. Noodle and his sister Miss Noodle were learning to take turns on a swing. At the end, Elmo laughed and said, "They are real swingers!"

Um, Elmo, that's just not right.

*************

Given Peanut's ability to pick up on everything we say, the husband and I have taken to s-p-e-l-l-i-n-g everything o-u-t.

It's like the Scripps National Spelling Bee* around here.

A normal conversation around here goes something like this:

Husband: Has she watched any E-l-m-o today?

Me: No, no E-l-m-o yet.

It also includes us spelling curse words out but they lose their effect when you spell them so I'm just trying not to use them at all.

*Every year when they televise the spelling bee, I am reminded of the summer Hillary and I interned at the Scripps Washington bureau. On the break room fridge there was a list titled "Words the kids couldn't spell." It included: beer, party and girlfriend.

Babies to boys

The Boy began the transition to the 2-year-old room this morning. That class spends the first part of the day outside, so I left him on the playground with a quick hug and kiss then stashed his lunch and school blanky in a new cubby. My car was parked across the street from the playground, and I sat for a minute and watched him. He looked a bit lost at first, but lit up when an older boy whizzed by, his legs just blurs, on a tricycle. The Boy chased after the boy, running into V, another 2-year-old newbie from his old class, on the way. Together, The Boy and V ran giggling to the swings, which are right next to the streetside fence. The Boy spotted my car and me in it and flapped his chubby arm wildly. I could see his mouth moving; I imagine he was saying, "Hi Momma! Bye Momma!"

I drove away teary. I could blame pregnancy hormones for being so sappy. But really, it was more the realization that my little baby is a little boy. It doesn't seem so long ago he was like The Lad, throwing elbows in utero and annoying me with hiccups, and now he's chasing and being chased across a playground.

The Lad will be here in just a little more than a month. I spent tonight unrolling a diaper cake from the shower our friends were kind enough to throw us this weekend. It's hard to believe, looking at The Boy, that those tiny diapers won't be too small. And yet, with The Boy changing in front of me every day, I know just how fast The Lad is going to go from that wee little thing I can't imagine to the sturdy little fellow I can't wait to get to know.

Spreading joy and deals

I normally don't even want to think about Christmas until the day after Thanksgiving. The holiday does not exist to me until we have been stuffed with turkey and my mother wakes me up at 5 a.m. to go shopping the day after Thanksgiving. (It's a family tradition for her to get us up and for me to whine about it.)

But this year is different. This year I am a shopping diva already. I am done shopping for my niece, my nephew and pretty much Peanut except for some small things.

Allow me to outline my deals:

• I bought Peanut this Little People Learn About Town that retails for $50. I got it on clearance a couple months ago for $30. Today, I went to Target and bought her this Little People Fun Park for $19.99 (regularly $39.99). We also got her the Step 2 Flip & Doodle Easel Desk, and while it wasn't on sale, I thought it was a pretty good deal for something I hope she will use for a few years.
  
• For my nephew, I bought the Tag reading system. It was on sale at Target for $39.99 (regularly $49.99). I had two $10 off coupons courtesy of BabyCheapSkate so I got it for $19.99 allowing me to buy him two books to go along with it.
• For my niece, I got a her a Gloworm from Meijer for $7.99 ($4 off regular price) then headed to Kmart where they had most of their Fisher Price Laugh & Learn toys buy one get one free. That's right buy one, get one free. I got her the Laugh & Learn Fun with Friends Musical Table at regular price and then the Laugh & Learn Learning Letters Mailbox for free (a $25.99 value).

That's a total savings of $80. I don't know what has been more fun for me so far: buying the gifts or finding the best deals.

Have you started your Christmas shopping yet? Find any good deals?

Eight months: Deep breaths

Sign I am eight months pregnant: I have cleavage.

I also am finding myself short of breath quite a bit thanks to The Lad. "He doesn't seem high," I said at my most recent doctor's appointment, "but he must be squishing my lungs a bit." The midwife's eyes bugged out. "Oh, he's high," she said.

And this is why I sometimes think prenatal appointments are pointless: Her advice to me was to "sit up straight and take those good deep breaths. It's good for the posture."

Gee. Thanks. Why didn't I think of that?

Here's the obligatory belly shot. The Boy took this picture, and I think the perspective is appropriate, with the belly/Lad sort of looming over everything.

Baby time, break time

Despite my rage about maternity leave*, I have found myself daydreaming lately about my time at home with The Lad.

Between antsiness at being home and anxiety over going back to work and leaving my BABY!, I didn't fully appreciate my maternity leave with The Boy. Going in, I had no idea what caring for a newborn would be like and couldn't imagine how I'd fill the hours. (Quit laughing. I've worked since I was 16; I've never gone longer than 10 weeks without a job and that was when I was studying in another country.) Of course, as all parents do, I discovered plenty to keep me busy. Diapers and napping and tummytime and fretting over feeding schedules and endless loads of laundry ate up a day before I knew it. Yet, truthfully, I still was a little bored. I found a pleading e-mail sent to some girlfriends about three weeks after The Boy's birth begging them to meet for lunch or dinner, so I could have some conversation that didn't revolve around the color of the baby's poo.

But, looking back at my leave with The Boy, I see golden hours spent napping while he napped or lying on the floor next to him, reading aloud while he discovered his hands, or taking leisurely walks around our neighborhood. I read nine books the February after The Boy was born. I baked cookies and muffins and gave them away to neighbors. I spent hours trolling the Internet for parenting blogs. I arranged my day around the programming schedule of BBC America.

Work has been very busy lately. I could really use that kind of break again. I've been remembering how baby schedules work and debating if a morning or afternoon walk would fit in best, considering The Boy's daycare drop-off and pick-up times. (We've decided to keep The Boy in daycare while I'm on leave because we have to pay for the spot anyway and hope that keeping him on his regular schedule will minimize problems. Not having to wrangle a toddler makes baby-wrangling seem easy.) I have lists of books I want to read and shows I want to watch.

Of course, I am aware that the Universal Law of Parenting Contrariness means that because I am planning all of this, I will get a baby who never sleeps and demands constant attention, and instead spend my leave covered in spit-up and desperate for sleep. Still. A momma can dream.

What should I put on my to-do list?



*Also, some good news about maternity leave: Since The Boy was born, our company policy has changed so I don't have to use ALL of my vacation/sick time before unpaid leave kicks in. I just have to use up a week. Not sure how that changes things -- we need to do the math to see what we can afford -- but it was a pleasant surprise.

If you could ...

Our blogger friend, k, from Two Adults, One Brown Baby is going through a nightmare. She was pregnant with twins but had to deliver early. Noah and Iris joined big brother E last week. Noah, however, did not make it and Iris is in the NICU.

She has been a regular commenter on our blog, always with something witty and fun. Her blog has made both of us laugh.

So, please, send prayers, thoughts, good juju, whatever it is you believe in her way.

I can't imagine what she is going through.

Good gift, bad gift

For all of our similarities, Hillary and I disagree quite a lot. The need for sappy goodbyes, the musical talents of boy bands and the validity of footie pajamas as more than bedtime wear are just a few things we don't see eye to eye on.

We found another one this weekend: Giving a potty as a gift.

While Peanut isn't quite ready to be potty trained, I do want her to become familiar with the concept. I thought we would give her a potty for Christmas. When I told Hillary this over the weekend, you would have thought I said I was giving my darling nothing for Christmas. She was Appalled. I think the words "crass and crude" actually came out of her mouth.

It's not like I'm giving a toilet to my mother so that she can plant flowers in them for display in her front yard.

Hillary still thought it was a terrible idea even though she admitted The Boy's toilet was probably his favorite thing.

So what's the problem? I wouldn't just gift wrap a bed pan. I planned to get one of the fun ones that sing and looked like a little throne (even though that is disturbing to me).

Turns out the point is moot. Peanut told us for the first time this morning that she had "poo." So we've decided not to wait until Christmas and just get a potty now to see how she does.

When I sent Hillary a message about this she responded, "Good. No child should have to unwrap a toilet on Christmas morning."

Milestones not in the baby book

Baby books never seem to have lines for the things that really matter in a new life. The page of "firsts" in The Boy's baby book is scribbled margin to margin because there seemed to be so many firsts that deserved notation: First plane ride (at four months to see Grammy and Pawpaw and meet his Aunt Lexi and cousins), first Major League game (Reds v. Marlins on cowbell giveaway night), first "altercation" (with another baby at daycare).

We had a few more firsts last week that have no place in the baby book, though they gave The Boy and us so much joy, I think they deserve documentation.

First "Smile for the camera!":

I love how he squints until his eyes disappear.

First pony ride at a festival:

"Boy ride pony!" he demanded. He slips into third person when he's adamant.

First time in the driver's seat of a plane:

Most of the time he was up there, The Boy was waving at me as fast as his arm could flap.

What are some of the firsts you remember best with your kids? What firsts are you looking forward to?

How can I top that?

Two years ago today, I woke up at 3 a.m.

I was late but two previous pregnancy tests came up negative. I knew they were wrong and I just didn't have the patience to wait until real morning to prove it.

I crept out of bed, took the test and waited. I didn't wait long. Two lines appeared.

Two lines.

We had done it. We made a baby. I laughed and cried alone in the bathroom while the husband slept peacefully unaware of how our life had just completely changed.

It hit me then. What better way to tell him than in his birthday card? He had already guessed his other presents. He would never suspect this. So I wrote "Since you ruined all of the other surprises ... I can't wait to have your child in 8 months."

I woke him. He couldn't understand why I insisted on giving him his birthday card in the middle of the night.

He read it and looked at me with tears in his eyes. "You're pregnant? You're pregnant?" He asked over and over again as we hugged and kissed. Screenwriters could not have scripted a better moment. It was the moment we went from a couple to a family.

I have no big surprises for him this year but I can't imagine anything better than spending his birthday as a family. I don't think either one of us knew it would be this good. Happy birthday, Lucas.

How did you tell your significant other that you were pregnant?

Something that does NOT make me cranky

"Morning, Momma! Hi! Morning!"

The Boy is full of exclamation points in the morning. Sometimes, times that do not start with a four or a five, this is a charming trait. Waking up to see his chubby-limbed silhouette walking across the house in the early morning light is lovely. Waking up to see his chubby-cheeked face chirping salutations at me in the predawn darkness is not.

One morning at 4:39, as The Boy began crying less than a foot from my ear because Daddyman was about to take him back to bed, I snapped, "Show him the clock." The Boy can recognize numbers up to 10 and has a digital clock in his room. We showed him that the time started with 4 and told him he needed to go back to bed until the time started with 5 or, god-willing, 6. The Boy stopped crying instantly. He went back to bed. He slept til 5. Another morning, after a refresher lesson with the same trick, he slept til 6:30.

I can't take full credit for this parenting trick. I saw it somewhere, I think on ParentHacks, and just happened to remember it in my groggy, frustration. But, since every parent could use a little more sleep, I thought I'd share. (That link is to the closest approximation of the trick I could find with a quick search. I might try that one, too.)

Belly full of rage

I have been putting off dealing with maternity leave. Ages ago, I told my bosses I was pregnant and would be taking leave around the first of the year. But as to how much leave, well, I left that vague. I didn't refresh my memory and read up on our company's policy regarding paid vs. unpaid leave or do the math and figure out how much time I actually could take, you know, figuring reality into the equation, because I knew the whole topic would just infuriate me. And I don't think it's good for The Lad to stew in a belly full of rage.

But today, I thought about maternity leave. I did the math. And indeed, it soured my mood.

Our country's family leave laws SUCK.

I work for a large company with a family-friendly atmosphere and bosses who are accommodating. Truly. I am one of the lucky mothers. Many women -- women like my sister, who works at a small beauty salon -- are entitled to nothing under the law but whatever time off they can buy with vacation and sick time or their bosses' goodwill.

But lucky in this country still is sucky. We're supposed to be grateful for 12 unpaid weeks off that is guaranteed if and only if our company has more than 50 employees, and which comes with all sorts of strings attached. To get the privilege of that unpaid leave, use up all that vacation and sick time. Work for the same company as your spouse and the leave for both of you is lumped together in the same pool. And, in what I find one of the more demeaning things about the whole process, to get paid leave, you go through short-term disability policies. Because pregnancy is TOTALLY a disability.

To get The Lad to the 12-week mark before dumping him at the germfest known as daycare, I would have to use up all of my vacation/sick time for the year and THEN take two weeks of unpaid leave. Or, the husband and I could each take three weeks vacation/sick time, leaving us with a week each for the year. Both of those options suck because:

1. Toddlers and kids get sick, and when they get sick, you can't send them to daycare.
   
2. Daycares close for holidays.
   
3. We live 1,000 miles from relatives so there is no one to help with childcare when daycare closes, and we also would like to visit those relatives at some point. Visiting them means at least a week.
   

Conclusion:
I will be THAT mom, dumping her baby at daycare before he's even three months old. And if you have something nasty to say about that, well, I have some pent-up rage I'd be happy to share.

Edit: I just wanted to add that we're also lucky to have found a daycare we love and trust. I know my kids -- both of them -- are going to be fine there. That doesn't make this any easier.

What to do when you swallow a thumbtack

If you google "swallow a thumb tack" you get quite a few links that include various versions of "Help! My toddler swallowed a thumb tack. What do I do?" or 'Help! My dog swallowed a thumb tack. Will he die?"

There is no link for answers to "Help! My husband just e-mailed me at work to tell me he swallowed a thumb tack while sitting at his desk. What do I do?"

But that's exactly what happened Tuesday morning. The husband and I work together but I was in a different office that day. He e-mailed with a simple note "I just swallowed a thumb tack."

That's it.

Dumbstruck, I called him and asked him if he was OK and insisted that he go to the doctor. He said it was no big deal but I had visions of organ perforation and the father of my child meeting an early demise all because of a thumb tack. Once I got over the fear of being a widow thanks to a thumb tack, I began to repeatedly ask him if he was a 2-year-old.

You might ask yourself, "How did a grown man (who turns 31 next week) swallow a thumb tack while sitting at his desk?"

If you come up with a better answer than, "I had it in my mouth, breathed it, and swallowed it," you are doing better than my husband. He also said it wasn't a big thumb tack, but more of a map pin, making it easier to swallow.

Anyway, he refused to call a doctor, so we did the next best thing. We googled.

Most sites advised that there was nothing to do but wait and it should, ahem, pass. If a fever or stomach cramps occur, get thee to a hospital. After 72 hours of symptom-free bliss, you may assume that the thumb tack (or map pin) has left the building with no fanfare.

After I calmed down, I asked him I could write a blog post about this. He said it was too soon to joke. I then asked if I should pick up some rubber gloves at the store so he could, well, use your imagination. He told me to shut up. (He later called upon our marriage vows of in sickness and in health to get me to do his dirty work. I told him to shut up.)

I promised to wait until we were in the clear to joke about it.

We believe we are in the clear. Joke away.

Pieces parts

These all sort of fit together, at least in my mind ...

The Lad got hiccups for the first time this week. The Boy had them all the time in utero, but this kid, not so much. I'd almost forgotten what fetus hiccups felt like. At first, I thought his heart was just beating harder than usual.

---

The Boy kind of understands the concept of a baby being in Momma's belly. The other night, he was sitting on the husband's lap, "drumming" the husband's belly.

"I drumming Lad," The Boy said. Hey, I said he kind of understood.

---

Speaking of drumming, that is quickly becoming The Boy's favorite past-time. He has a plastic snare drum he beats the crap out of, demanding we sing along to his rhythm section. "Sing ACs, Momma! Sing E-O-E-O!" He also keeps pretty good time while the husband plays guitar. They have been perfecting two original songs: One about our cat saying mew and a death-metal-inspired rocker about a blue truck.

My uncle is a drummer and has been since childhood. I suppose we can blame The Boy's noisy habit on genetics.

---

Another thing The Boy gets honestly: impatience. It's one of my worst traits.

The daycare ladies must have been telling him to be patient a lot this last week when his listening ears went missing. Last night, on the way home, The Boy asked for crackers. I told him he could have them when we got home.

"I eat them now, tho."

"No, when we get home."

"I be pay-shent. OK. I be pay-shent."

It took me a couple seconds to figure out The Boy was saying he'd be patient. I'm used to talking in concrete verbs with him, not abstract concepts. I thought he meant painting at first.

---

We keep telling The Boy how big he is and what a good big brother he's going to be.

He really is getting big. Physically, he's still my giant baby -- he has a 4T outfit that fits -- but he's growing up in other ways, too. This week at dinner, he's asked to skip his highchair in favor of a seat at the table with us and has done quite well in it, thanks to a book-booster seat. He parrots everything we say. (Which reminds me: I really need to stop with the swearing.) He puts together matching puzzles. And, though we have tantrums -- boy! do we have tantrums -- The Boy also can sometimes see reason.

Take his trains and other building masterpieces. The Boy hates dismantling the things he's spent such concentrated effort putting together. But we've found we can stop a tantrum by taking a picture of said masterpieces. He poses with them, he sees the pictures and then he happily destroys everything and puts the blocks in the barrel. Everyone wins.

Just the three of us

We went to a birthday party for the husband's triplet cousins this weekend. They turned 9 and it is always a good time seeing the in-laws. Peanut was fresh off a hair cut (goodbye, mullet) and in a pleasant mood despite being up for more than five hours in the middle of the night telling incomprehensible stories that were apparently very funny to the husband, my mother-in-law and me as we took shifts hanging out with a not-so-sleepy baby.

While at the party, my husband's Nana informed me that Peanut would look really good with a little brother. It didn't bother me but the sibling issue has been coming up more and more as Peanut gets older. I simply told her we are in no hurry to add to the family.

Which, I know. It's a huge turn around from this and this.

A couple months ago, I was desperate to get pregnant again. It was all I could think about. It didn't help that so many people I know are pregnant.

I don't know where the change came from but I'm happy with it. We (and by we, I mean me) don't have any set time lines anymore. We are a family of three right now and sometime in the future, we hope to be a family of four.

Writing it makes it feel official, which it really isn't. We haven't had any planning meetings or strategy sessions. It's more like we looked at each other one evening after a long day and both said "we aren't ready," each of us sighing with relief that we agreed.

We love spending time with just our little Peanut as she learns to say apple, her own name and I love you.

We are enjoying now.

Observation

I was lying on the couch reading, but my eyes were getting heavy. Bed seemed like the right choice, nevermind the ridiculously early hour.

"Can you help me up?" I said, extending my hand to the husband. "My belly is getting a little unwieldy."

"Yeah, I've noticed it seems to take a lot of effort sometimes for you to roll over at night."

Sweet of him to notice. Smart of him to tell me while I'm stuck out of smacking reach.

An insight to our friendship

Here is a recent thread of a conversation on Facebook, starting with my Facebook status:

Status: Michelle needs to get focused but is procrastinating as usual.

Hillary: Me, too.

Michelle: How did we ever make it through college? Seriously. Probably why we ended up at Zachary's* on Monday nights.

Hillary: You were a bad influence. That's why we ended up at Zachary's on a Monday night.

Michelle: Yes. That's it. I kidnapped you and made you drink with me. If I remember correctly, you easily succumbed to peer pressure so it's really your own fault.

Hillary: I was an impressionable child.

Michelle: Impressionable child, my ass.

Hillary: I miss you.

Michelle: I'd spoon you in an extra-long twin bed and we'd watch Friends if we were together right now.

Michelle: By the way, I'm writing a blog entry about this.

Hillary: About how some things never change?

Michelle: Yes, pretty much.

******

Our lives when we lived together often consisted of late nights, partying and finishing work at the last minute. Our lives apart now consist of raising children, which often results in late nights, partying in a very different way and still finishing work at the last minute.

And we thought we had come so far.

It's been seven years since we lived together. More than a 1,000 miles separate us. And yet, it's still like she's in the twin bed across from mine giving me crap, taking mine, sharing sordid secrets, and listening to each other's hopes and fears.

I'm glad we didn't get away from that.

*For those who didn't cut their alcohol teeth in Athens, Ohio, Zachary's was a bar just a parking lot walk away from where we lived that made frou-frou drinks.

Lost and still missing

Report from school:

The Boy ate everything. He LOVED lunch.

The Boy slept.

The Boy painted squirrels and acorns.

The Boy was cheerful, energetic, talkative and mischievous.

The Boy "left his listening ears at home today."

That last bit made me laugh. As the husband said, "Um, no. I beg to differ. I'd say he lost those about a week ago. I don't know where they are, but they're not at home."

It's nice to know we're not the only ones against whom The Boy is pushing.

Be here now

The clock hit 5 p.m. just as I hit another red light. I gritted my teeth and gave up getting to daycare at the usual time. I kicked myself for working from a different office that afternoon, swore about the swine flu death that had kept me in the office later than expected and wondered if I had just not stopped for gas, even if I was running on fumes, would I have made it on time? I made a mental note to tell the husband he'd have to stop at the grocery store on the way home. It was one more thing that hadn't fit in my day, and The Boy and I wouldn't have time to do that and fix mashed potatoes to go with the dinner probably burning in the crockpot.

I took a deep breath to remind myself that The Boy, probably happily playing as I fought traffic, wouldn't care. I was upset over a matter of five minutes, ten maybe. Still, it took saying it out loud -- "The Boy won't care. He won't even know I'm late." -- to stop the swear words pouring out of my mouth, to put aside my guilt and just be happy to see The Boy smiling at me when I get to the playground gate.

While Michelle is rocking, I feel like we are scraping by. We're all fed, clothed and clean. The husband and I are meeting the deadlines we have to at work. The Boy is talking and singing more everyday, learning to count and generally being charming despite the early onset of two-year-old attitude. But everyday is a rush to the end of the to-do list.

Every night, I walk in the door behind The Boy and start emptying bags and putting together dinner. I tell him to be patient while Momma changes her clothes or sorts the mail or washes out his lunch dishes. Independence is good for him, I tell myself. And it is. But so is time with Momma cuddled in the reading chair or sitting splay-legged on the rug, building block trains.

When I hear myself tell The Boy "hold on" and "wait a minute" more than twice, I tell myself to take a minute. I remind myself, as I did in the car, to just be here with him. We have enough time for that.

For one day, I rocked

Every once in awhile, a day comes along and I feel like I have it all together. The stars align and all is right. I can conquer anything. Tackle any problem. Be the mom, wife, employee that I want to be.

Tuesday was my day.

It was Election Day, which is The Day for most newspapers. We write endless bios on candidates. Dissect the issues. Spend countless hours planning coverage. I work on the Internet side of things for a group of newspapers. I agreed to work during the day (while most people work at night on Election Day) to help keep updates on our sites. I felt on top of it. I knew what I was doing. I didn't feel overwhelmed despite the constant work and not many people around to help out. Maybe it was the 50 ounces of coffee I drank before noon. And no, I'm not kidding.

I left work, picked up Peanut and took her to the local H1N1 clinic for a vaccine. She took it like a champ. Cried for less than 5 seconds (unlike some of those other wussy kids there. Kidding.) The place was packed but they had the system down so well, we were in and out in 15 minutes.

From there, we drove to the other side of town so I could vote. In and out in less than 10 minutes with Peanut wooing all the poll workers.

The husband offered to pick up dinner but I insisted on cooking. Granted it was spaghetti but I wanted to do it. Dinner was ready by the time the husband walked in the door.

After that, we had a rousing game of run around the house in circles, one of Peanuts favorite games. Once she began to wear down, she took a bath and even let me rock her to sleep, something she hasn't done in months.

The husband cleaned up the kitchen for me while I ran back out to fill the car up with gas and get ground coffee that I so desperately needed. While at the store, I remembered a few odds and ends that we needed and ended up saving more than $9 on a $19 bill.

All this before 8:30 p.m.

It's not often that I feel this productive or on top of things. When it comes around, I cherish it. It reminds me in my less than stellar moments, days, sometimes weeks, that I am capable of doing this.

What makes you feel like you rock?

So this parenthood No. 7

I giggled all weekend every time my daughter said "poo." Giggled like a school child whose friend just tooted in class.

It was hard not too with her cute little voice saying "pooooooo" and her perfectly round little mouth.

And then I asked her what a lion said today.

Her response?

Poooooooo.

Hmmm. The giggling might not have been such a good idea.

Ready for a break

My in-laws said goodbye last night after spending a long weekend down here with us. They kept The Boy home from daycare Monday for one last day playing, and I'm not sure who was more worn out: them or the kiddo. My mother-in-law said she had carpet burn on her knees from playing trucks with The Boy all day. My father-in-law groaned every time he sat down or got up.

Meanwhile, The Boy -- who only got a half hour nap yesterday -- rolled out of bed early in the evening and never woke up. We found him lying on the floor, blanky curled underneath him and sheets and quilt pulled down around him. At midnight, he woke up convinced it was morning and wanting to eat Os and bananas. I spent 15 minutes rocking him in The Lad's room -- the rocking chair's new home -- until he looked up and said, "I go back sleep."

The Boy really enjoyed the time with his grandparents, but I'm hoping that's the last surprise event we have between now and Christmas. October was just a mess of busy for us, with things happening every weekend. We're ready for The Lad's arrival -- I've preregistered for the hospital, bought his going-home outfit and finished his room -- but there are the holidays and The Boy's second birthday to think about. More than that, I just want to relax for a little while and just enjoy the last weeks of being a family of three.

Happy late Halloween

Our Halloween plans got derailed by H1N1. My sister's children were exposed so we played it safe and stayed home. And even though she wasn't trick-or-treating, Peanut dutifully donned her costume for my parents who stopped by.

Here she is:

Dada, please make her stop. I don't want to do this.

OK, seriously, you are just trying to make me look silly now.

Fine, I will humor you. Take your pictures.

Whew. I'm tired from all of this. I'll allow you to continue to take pictures if I can just sit here.