A pregnancy text

I sent my husband a text Friday night.

"I want to get pregnant."

He responded with a blank message back. When I sent another message telling him his was blank, he told me that he had done it on purpose.

I've been waffling for months about getting pregnant again. I definitely want to do it but the timing never seemed right. When the husband seemed ready, I wasn't. When I was, he wasn't. And then we both just got busy and put the whole subject on the back burner.

We've been talking about the possibility with more regularity lately. At the first of the year, the husband suggested we try to have a baby in the fall. When I explained to him that would require getting pregnant, um, now, he shrugged his shoulders like it was no big deal.

I told him to slow his roll.

So instead we've spent the past month (and by we, I mean me) obsessively thinking, "should we? shouldn't we?"

Which leads to last night's conversation in which the husband kept staring at me blankly while I talked about all of the possibilities. I finally pushed him to tell me what he was thinking. He said he didn't remember the first time around being this big of a deal. We just decided, which is true. He told me it was my decision. I'm the one who will be pregnant for nine months. He's ready whenever but he wants me to be ready.

So. We aren't trying now, but are considering the possibility more seriously. Things need to get in order. I need to detox from caffeine and start taking vitamins. I wouldn't mind losing a little weight. I know it seems silly but I've already lost a few and would like to keep it going for as healthy of a pregnancy as possible.

I worried about putting this out there but the husband reminded me this is what every couple talks about. This is how decisions are made. So tell me, how did you make the decision to get pregnant?

Already a good little mommy

Peanut's has two new fascinations: baby dolls and feeding the cat, Gabbles.

This morning she was faced with a dilemma, put down her baby doll or feed the cat. She did what any good mommy would do. She adjusted the doll into one arm, picked up the cat's food bowl, took it and the baby to where we keep the cat food food, filled the dish (with a little help) and took it back for the cat, all while juggling her baby doll.

She's already learning the tricks of motherhood at 18 months old.

And the winners are ...

The winners of the first Not Raising Brats goody giveaway (inspired by Clueless but Hopeful Mama) are ...

Clueless but Hopeful Mama (which just goes to show you that if you start something good, it will come back to you) and Sarah!

E-mail us at notraisingbrats (at) yahoo (dot) com with your addresses and we will send out your packages soon. Maybe next week. Hopefully by the end of next month.

An hour in my life

I started pumping, right after finishing feeding The Lad. One minute into it, The Lad wakes up from his milk-stupor screaming. Five minutes into it, I'm feeling pretty capable after managing, one-handed, to pick him up and nestle him against me, thus stopping the screaming. Six minutes into it, I realize the warm spot on his back is a giant poo stain. As I realize this, he spits up a little on my arm. I flop him belly-down across the boppy -- he needs belly time anyway -- and continue pumping. I eye the poo stain with dread.

Finished pumping, I leave the screaming Lad on his belly, dump the milk into a storage container and start the tub filling in the kitchen sink. I go back to retrieve The Lad, boobs still out, and manage to pull off the soiled onesie without getting poo anywhere other than his ear. I undid the snaps at his neck with my teeth, people. I am super mom. (Or perhaps just really sick of doing laundry. Whatever.) After wiping off the worst of it, I dump him into the tub and give him a quick scrub all over. He likes it until I start emptying out the water, then realizes he's cold and wet and starts screaming again.

With him freshly scrubbed and poo-free, I finally remember to fix my bra. (I really hope the neighbor guy wasn't outside, looking in the general direction of our kitchen, because if he was, he got a show.) I dress The Lad and bundle him up in his silky blanky. I rock him and he smiles at me, his dimples sinking into his cheeks and his hair a halo of fuzz. It is a lovely moment.

The Lad is calm now, so I carry him into the bathroom and rinse out the pooed onesie. He's still calm after I wash my hands, so I set him in his chair and fix a sandwich and tea for lunch. He, of course, starts crying two bites into the sandwich, just as the water is boiling. I pick him up and juggle him into quiet while I eat. Two seconds after I finish the sandwich, I feel spit up running down my chest. I thank The Lad for waiting until I was done eating and am impressed he only got it on my tank top, not himself or my outer shirt.

I change my shirt, shush him into sleep and finally sit down to drink my tea, which is now lukewarm.

Unfair

Both boys fought sleep last night. The Lad didn't want to go back to bed after either of his feedings. The Boy had a bad dream -- it was "dark and scary" -- and was up repeatedly after it, which is easy to be understanding about until he orders you mercilessly from the bed he was begging you to come to five minutes before.

(Actual conversation -- Daddyman, tucking in The Boy: Here, you know who would be good to snuggle with? Giraffe!"

Boy: "Don't want 'raffe! Don't want 'raffe!"

Daddyman: "OK. Well, who do you want? Snoop?"

Boy: "You GO WAY!")

The Lad was back up at 6 to eat and promptly fell right back to sleep. And now, when the husband and I have to be up to shower and eat and get things around for the day, The Boy also is snoozing soundly, well past his normal wake up time.

I call bullshit.

Help for a new mom

A friend of mine is having her first baby this year. She has been peppering me with questions and I've been happy to answer what I can. But I thought even more moms might be able to help her. So, I thought we could all tell her about the things that surprised us when we first got our little one home.

Here's a list of what I didn't expect:

• We could go through five diapers in one changing.
• How far poop could spread. Up the back, down the leg. On the ceiling.
  
• How far spit could fly. We are talking three feet minimum.
  
• The amount of noise Peanut could make in her sleep. I don't know how many times I got out of bed those first couple weeks upon hearing a noise only to find a peaceful Peanut. I finally turned off the monitor.
• A 45 minute trip to Target would seem like a restorative, long weekend vacation.

What did you learn those first few weeks (besides loving another little being more than you thought possible)?

Being The Mom

The husband was washing dishes. The Boy and I were dancing to Josh Ritter singing "Me & Jiggs." He loves that song and will pop up randomly singing, "I forgot songs 'bout trains ... I not su-uuuure." The Boy laughed as I spun around him. I had The Lad pressed crosswise against me, his back to my belly, his legs straddling my arm. He watched The Boy wide-eyed as we ran around in circles.

It was the first moment where I felt like a really good mom to both my boys, at the same time.

---

The Boy is 2. He's loud and rough and silly and willful and charming. He's too clever for his own good. He's practically climbing back inside me one second and ferociously staking out his independence the next. He talks constantly, an endless stream of questions and non sequiturs.

He's driving me absolutely crazy.

It isn't always his fault. Like this morning: I'm nursing his brother and the last thing I want is yet another body touching mine, invading my personal space and tugging at me, but The Boy just wants to sit on my lap. I know this, so I let him, but inside, I'm screaming, "GET OFF ME!" Counting down the minutes til he leaves for school, I feel like a rotten momma.

Other times, the crazy-making is entirely his fault. Like the other day: He got so angry we were not helping to pick up his blocks -- oh! the horror -- that he dumped the half a bucket he'd already picked up and threw some across the room. I wanted to be giving him hugs and instead ended up swatting his butt. I know The Boy needs to be disciplined, but when he wipes his face and tells me his tantrum is over -- "I better now" -- I feel like a rotten momma.

His fault or not, the end result is the same. I'm really struggling to find a happy medium between the time I spend making sure he's not a brat and the time I spend encouraging -- and enjoying -- his natural, charming rottenness. I think mostly I need to, as my mom would say, get over it and realize I'm THE MOM. My kids aren't always going to like me. Parenting isn't always going to give me warm fuzzies.

While I'm working on that, I'm going to try to hang on to the moments that do.

---

PS Don't forget to enter our winter doldrums giveaway.

Spreading cheer

It's that time of year when everyone is coming down off the holiday season. The days are short, the weather rarely great and there are no days off in sight.

So to combat the blah we want to brighten someone's day.

We are stealing an idea from Clueless but Hopeful Mama. She's sending out a package of goodies to help the a winner get through January. We want to do the same. Leave a comment telling us what your favorite goodies are. Do you like green tea? Coffee? Does chocolate perk up your day? What about lemon drops? Cookies? What kind?

Comments will be open from now until midnight Wednesday. Two (2!) winners will be chosen at random. One will get a package from Hillary and the other will get something from me.

Just cuteness

I had planned all week to write a post about breastfeeding or about The Boy's continuing adjustment to life as a big brother. But those things require thought ... and a chunk of time longer than 15 minutes in which to type with both hands.

And really, I'm busy watching my baby grow.

(Make that: babies.)

And trying to ward off conspiracies against the husband and me.

I'm pretty sure the boys are working together some nights to make sure we never get more than two hours of sleep at a stretch. Thankfully, they haven't managed to get their plans together every night.

Still, cute baby pictures are all I've got in me today, dear readers. Would it help if I told you that in that last picture, the toy hard hat is the ONLY thing The Boy is wearing? How adorable is that? Happy weekend.

Flashback

Peanut is in love with herself. She loves to look at pictures of herself on the computer (and there is no short supply of them). If she sees one of us with the laptop out, she points fervently to it and begins shouting her own name. If we don't comply right away, she begins rubbing her chest for the "please" sign and imploring "peas, peas, PEAS" until we do.

She's an adamant little booger.

As we were going through the photos, I found these and just loved the peaceful calm.





They were taken last spring on a day off I was determined to document with as many photos as possible.

Here's hoping your Thursday is peaceful and calm.

In the last half hour

The husband is sitting in the chair, trying to calm a screaming Lad. He's holding the kiddo up under his arms, letting him stretch his legs and test his neck muscles, which are very strong.

"You want to dance, Lad? Shake to the right, shake it to the left. Shake to the right, shake it to the left ..."

The Lad quiets. The husband stops the dance. The Lad wails.

"Oh, I know you just want to dance all night. But you can't. You just can't."

---

The husband is lying on the bed with The Lad for a little belly time.

"Hey there, Lad. I'm the Daddyman. Yeah, I'm a pretty cool guy when you're not yelling at me. I'm kind of like a bigger version of your big brother. I'm kind of like a bigger version of you. But you have more of the mommalady in you than your big brother."

...

"How can you just stare at me and not fall asleep. 'Cause I'm falling asleep staring at you and you're way cuter than I am."

---

The Lad is crying again.

"Oh goodness gracious me oh my," the husband says. "Does your belly hurt?"

The Lad screams. "OH! I am angry," the husband says in an accent that sounds a little like the Count from Sesame Street. "'I am angry,' you say."

More cries from The Lad.

"Baby press! Baby press!" The Lad quiets as the husband pushes The Lad up off his chest as if the kiddo were a weight.

---

Watching my husband be a father is one of the best parts of having kids.

In the genes

Isn't it funny how genes travel down through generations?

From my mother's side of the family, there is The Look. We don't all look alike, but when we're irritated with someone, when we're DONE with this nonsense, we all have the same, distinct facial expression. This one:

Meanwhile, my grandpa's dimples completely skipped over both my mom and me, but landed on my kiddos. The Boy has a chin dimple and check these out:

The Boy's eyes are the same green-gold color as my father-in-law's and he squints like my mother-in-law when he smiles. The Lad has the husband's long toes. The Boy might have my odd, double-jointed thumbs. The Lad's nose flares when he's angry, just like mine. They both look enough like their dad to obviously be brothers.

And yet, they're totally themselves.

What family traits have passed down to your kids?

No longer 21

Ever have one of those moments when you realize your youth is gone? Way gone?

I'm living that right now.

Sunday morning, I successfully dropped Peanut off with my parents for her first sleepover without momma or daddy. With a quick kiss and a reminder to say "please" and "thank you" I jumped back in my car before either of us could weep.

The husband and I had an exciting afternoon planned at the hardware store. We want to redo our bathroom but so far our decisions have been thwarted by one of us chasing Peanut in the store while the other stands indecisively in front of a wall of tile.

Without our lovely darling to distract us, we were able to pick out some fabulous tile.

And this is where things get interesting.

We got home just in time to prepare for our evening with friends watching football. Watching football also involved eating and drinking. Cosmos to be exact. A number of which I am not going to reveal but let's just say I apparently forgot that I don't have the tolerance of a 21 year old anymore.

I've spent most of the day longing for my bed but trying not to act hung over.

No, I don't feel sick. I'm fine. I'm a grown, responsible mother who would never leave her daughter with someone else so she could drink so much she would feel sick the next day and into the evening.

Oy, people.

Thankfully, nothing embarrassing happened and I learned my lesson. I am definitely not 21 anymore.

So, how was your weekend?

Music to my boobs

The in-laws left Sunday morning for home, but before they did, the husband and I took their babysitting offer and escaped for a Saturday lunch date. When we came home from a lovely walk on the riverfront, I needed to pump and should have gone straight to the bedroom to do it while The Boy still was napping. Instead, I answered my mother-in-law's questions about where we went and what we ate, and while we were talking, The Boy woke up. And of course, he wanted to come with me when I excused myself to the bedroom.

Now, I am not a modest person. I don't mind breastfeeding in front of people and The Boy -- obviously -- however, I wasn't keen on his sitting there while I hooked myself up to the pump. Pumping is uncomfortable and unnatural to me. This is not an original metaphor, but I always think of the dairy farm where my high school boyfriend worked. I remember the machines pulling at their udders, and now I feel very sorry for them. All that's to say I really did not want him there while I pumped. But I also didn't want a tantrum over something silly.

"C'mon," I said.

He stared at me while I hooked up, not that I blame him. When the milk started flowing, I explained it was food for The Lad and I was saving it for later. We both sat there looking at each other and the pump sheepishly. Then, The Boy started waving his arms and wiggling his torso.

"Are you dancing?"

"Yep, I dancing."

"What are you dancing to?"

"The music, Momma."

Puzzled, I tried to think what he meant. And then I heard it.

Schuh-shuh, schuh-shuh, schuh-shuh, schuh-shuh -- the pump.

"Dat your music, Momma."

Smacked in the head

Patience is not a virtue I was blessed with. I struggle with it. Sometimes I don't care; sometimes I feel bad about my impatience.

With a child, I've realized, I need to dig deep and find my patience if this is going to work.

The other day, Peanut had a meltdown in Target. She wanted to read an Elmo book sitting right in that aisle and refused to do anything else. I disagreed with this arrangement so I tried to compromise. It only ended with her thrashing wildly about while crying and various people giving me hairy eyeballs for the way my child was acting.

I thought about just leaving my cart and going home. Instead, I made it an abbreviated trip and checked out with what I had.

I relayed this story to a women with whom I work. She chuckled with me, said "We've all been there" and then said something that never dawned on me. She said that children have no concept of time and that Peanut had no idea why she couldn't sit there and read.

It was like someone smacked me up side the head.

Of course she didn't understand. She's 18 months old. I'm always encouraging her to grab a book so why would sitting in Target be any different?

This realization led to another. I need to be more patient. Yes, it is my job to teach Peanut that the Target book aisle isn't the best place to plop down for a good read. But what would have been the harm in allowing her to sit there for 60 seconds (because that's all it would have been given her attention span)? We weren't in a hurry.

I don't want to indulge her every whim but some things just aren't worth having a meltdown over (hers outwardly, mine inwardly).

So this momma is going to work on it. I'm going to try to be more patient and recognize that we don't have to rush through everything. We don't always need to chop-chop (Thanks, Sarah, because I say this all of the time). Sometimes, we can just stop and read a book in Target so that we both have a better experience and I don't leave before getting the toilet paper.

Blowing the stink off

The Lad and I just returned from a walk through the neighborhood. The sun is shining, a light breeze is blowing and the temperature is in the 70s. I love Florida this time of year and am so grateful to have had both my boys now. I can't imagine having winter babies in a place where it's actually winter and cold and snow traps you in the house.

Today has been lovely. The Lad slept enough to allow me to get some cleaning done. I also dozed off for just a bit with the kiddo. I talked to my mom and trolled the interwebz. I've watched The Office while The Lad nursed and let the crockpot handle supper. I read and had my first cup of coffee since Christmas. This is the kind of day I hoped for when I was hugely pregnant and dreaming of maternity leave.

And, there's less than a week before our company -- my in-laws, who have been here since Dec. 28 -- leaves. I'm ready to just be a family of four.

It's delurking day. Tell us what's making you happy.

at the library

The Lad and I went to the library today, just a quick trip to pick up some books the husband and I had ordered. It was The Lad's first visit to the outside world, other than the doctor. He seemed to enjoy it, meaning he slept through it except for one tiny squeak that I quickly silenced with the pacifier.

The library was one of the first trips I ever made with The Boy, too. That trip was much more eventful.

I carried The Boy in a sling and while I perused the new arrivals, he grunted and cooed in his sleep. An old lady in the aisle cast curious looks in my direction. The Boy's coos turned into cries. The lady's looks turned cranky. I opened the sling to shush The Boy.

"OH! It's a baby!" cranky lady said. "I thought it was a cat."

Still the weirdest thing anyone's ever said about my kid.

How important is the birth?

I struggled with how Peanut was born. I questioned my decisions. I questioned the doctor's decisions. I've come to this conclusion: She was born healthy via a C-section and that's what matters.

Every once in awhile, I come across something that makes me pause. Like this. A woman moved 6 hours just so she could go to a hospital that would perform a VBAC. The article goes on to give tips for avoiding a C-section.

The husband and I began the preliminary discussions for The Next Baby. Are we ready? Do we wait longer? Do we just see what happens? No decisions have been made but the question looms out there.

Which always leads me to The Birth question: Will I need another C-section or can I have a VBAC?

I don't know if hospital in our town will allow a VBAC given the higher risk of complications. So should I travel to a hospital that will? Does it matter?

I'm in awe of women who have natural births. The endurance of pain and the triumph. The logical side of me wonders why anyone would put themselves through so much pain when they don't have to. And yet, I think I would do it given the chance.

My water broke in the middle of the night. I labored with Pitocin and no painkillers for probably about 10 hours, give or take an hour or two. It's kind of a blur. I got an epidural when the pain became too much and labored with it for another 5 hours. When I didn't progress past 3 cm and Peanut's heart rate dropped, the doctor said I should consider a C-section. Afraid for Peanut's health, I agreed. When she was born, we discovered the cord had been wrapped around her neck.

It does bother me that in certain circles, C-sections are portrayed as evil, awful things that should never happen. I know it's the extreme and I realize that ideally we would all be able to have a natural birth. It's part of the reason that I insisted on breastfeeding for a year. I felt it made up some for the C-section.

I do agree that some doctors use C-sections as a default birthing plan when things aren't going exactly as expected. But I believe that in condemning C-sections, some mothers who have had them feel guilty for no reason. C-sections are not the easy way out, especially if you had one for medical reasons. No matter how you bring your child into this world, you aren't taking the easy way out. You created that child IN YOUR BODY for NINE MONTHS. That is not easy. It is mind blowing if you really try to think about it.

When I grieved the loss of a rite of passage of motherhood, a friend told me giving up my wants in the interest of my child's needs is a rite a passage of motherhood. I've carried that with me and tried to pass it on to other mothers concerned about having a C-section.

I'm not promoting C-sections. I know the risks are higher for both mother and child. But I believe mothers should do what is best for them and the child that they are birthing. We can try to prevent C-sections all we want but we should respect any way mothers bring their children into the world. I'm not less of a woman or a mother because my daughter was born via C-section. And the same will hold true if I opt for a second C-section whenever that time comes.

What do you think? Does it matter how we give birth?

Birthday Boy

The Boy turns 2 today.

This tiny little Boy who hated being swaddled and couldn't be bothered to stay awake long enough to nurse ...

is now my giant toddler, who loves trucks and recently discovered the art of licking the beaters.

The Boy is my first born, so the poor kid has had to deal with a momma learning on the job.

But he seems to have enjoyed it.

The Boy hoisted himself into my lap the other night after an evening watching football with the Daddyman. He hugged me and laid his head on my shoulder.

"I your boy," he said.

Always.

Baby blues

I was weepy and anxious after The Boy was born. It didn't last long and was never more than an excess of hormones, just a brief spat of baby blues. With The Lad, I haven't even had that. If it weren't for this damn cold -- which still is plugging up my nose and making sleep difficult -- I'd feel great.

The baby blues instead struck The Boy.

The Boy likes The Lad. That's not the problem. This morning, he patted the empty bouncy seat and asked, "Where Lad?" He kissed him goodbye and insisted on a hug, too, before school.

But, as I've said, The Boy is jealous of my and the husband's time. He constantly wants us to play with him or help him -- usually with things that three weeks ago he would have been perfectly happy to do on his own. He shuns the grandparents and insists on Momma or Daddy.

The Boy also has some separation anxiety starting. We had the episode the other night when he started crying in our friends' driveway, so scared I would leave him there that he didn't want to go in and visit. Then, the past few days, he's cried real, hot tears when we take him to school. He starts whimpering en route to the daycare, and by the time we leave him with Miss D, his face is screwed up and he's sobbing.

"I miss Daddy!" The Boy cried this morning. "I miss mine Daddy!"

And that was AFTER the husband had him calmed down once, telling him that we love him and promising to pick him up that afternoon.

We're trying a combination of things to deal with The Boy's blues. Some of the behavior -- the fits and whining -- isn't acceptable, and for that, he's disciplined. But we are trying to be patient with him. We both have made time to play with him, and we have special, Boy-time with him every night before bed. The husband told the grandparents to back off the other night and give him some space. We've kept him in school, trying to create as normal a routine as possible.

But maybe you guys have better ideas? What can we do to help our kiddo beat these blues?

Things I'm learning about my daughter

The new schedule is allowing me to really spend quality time with Peanut. That and the fact that it is freaking cold out and I have no desire to take her anywhere means plenty of one-on-one time with momma.

Here are some of the things I've learned about my Peanut:

• She likes a very specific amount of milk on her cereal. Too much causes fits. No milk also is cause for tears. Enough milk so that the cereal soaks it all up leaving nothing behind is just right.
  
• She has no problem being in her pajamas until afternoon. (Neither does her mother.)
  
• She's wily. Very wily. When I told her no more Elmo, she looked at me and asked for Abby instead. I have a feeling she's going to make her way through the whole cast of Sesame Street characters as back ups soon.
• She likes alone time. If she doesn't get her way, she will through a fit. If she's particularly wound up, she will request to go "night-night" since that is the only time she can have her paci. A few quiet moments in her crib with her paci seems to cure any angst over her limited Elmo.

Peaceful parts

The Lad's eyelashes have grown in. One day, he had just little wisps that might be eyelashes and the next morning, curly lashes cast shadows on his cheeks.

I don't remember The Boy's eyelashes growing. But then, when The Boy was approaching two weeks old, I was frantic about breastfeeding, trying to count every suck and swallow and crying more than he was.

Things aren't all easy this time either. Everyone but The Lad has the nastiest cold I've had since the Nyquil Weekend of 2002. Our washer broke (with a load of my in-laws' clothes covered in water. Ha!) and we had to replace both it and the dryer. The next day, my car battery was dead.

Meanwhile, The Boy is days away from turning 2, jealous of both mine and The Daddyman's time, a little overwhelmed by all the presents and grandparents, and still a bit freaked out by the thought of Momma going to the doctor. I took him over last night to the friends who watched him while I was in the hospital, thinking it would be nice for him to see his little buddy. Instead, he flipped out in the driveway, scared I was going to leave him there again.

But The Lad, he's easy. He eats, sleeps and poos in appropriate amounts. He sleeps at night for as long as five hours at a stretch. Cuddling and nursing him is the most peaceful part of my day. I stroke his chin to make his dimples appear and stretch his arms and legs. When he's hungry and lying on my chest, he crawls up and lifts his head to try to suck on my cheek. It feels like kisses.

New schedule

At the end of the year, I got some good news at work. It also meant some changes. While those are being ironed out, I volunteered to work a different schedule. A very different schedule.

Working in a newsroom means that we have people there almost around the clock. So I will be going from leaving work at 3:30 p.m. to arriving at 3 p.m. and working until midnight.

I've agreed to to this just for January. (Although I suppose there is the possibility I will like it and want to continue if there is a necessity for it). There are some positives. I will spend more time with Peanut when she and I are at our best. I won't have to get up at 5 a.m. I will have almost my entire day to get stuff done around the house and run errands.

Peanut will still go to the babysitter's for a few hours in the afternoon, which is great. She loves it there and we love B and her family. Peanut has a massive crush on B's oldest son and her daughter has even paired Peanut's first name with their last name to see what it would sound like. Don't ask the husband about it. He might swallow his tongue.

There are drawbacks, the biggest of which will be seeing my husband more at work during the week than actually seeing him at home (if you don't count sleeping in the same bed together).

But, focusing on the positives, I have grand plans for our month together. I want to work out (which I accomplished on the first day), take her to story time at the library, maybe do swim lessons in the mornings or find some mommy and me classes and plan play dates (I already have two penciled in).

So far, so good. The first day started off with a screaming fit because daddy wasn't there and I put milk on her cereal (silly, mommy). After that, we had a great day, in which she asked for her dad all day, called me Michelle repeatedly (a new habit picked up this weekend), we danced together to Elmo and read plenty of books.

The husband reports that during the evening she asked for me. He's either trying to make me feel good or she's already learning to play us.

Anatomy lessons

The Boy came into the bedroom while I was feeding The Lad. Breastfeeding actually is working with this kiddo. As The Lad latched on, The Boy laughed, "Ha! He bit you boob."

Yes, I explained, that's how the baby eats.

"He eat you boob?"

---

The Lad started crying this morning, wanting to eat, just as I started my bowl of Cheerios. While I scarfed down my cereal, The Boy told us his brother was crying.

Yep, I said, he wants to eat.

"I have boobs," The Boy said, pulling down his pajama top.

So this is parenthood No. 9

After a battle with a what appears to be a stomach virus that canceled date night, Peanut seemed better. She was running around, screaming, laughing, eating like everything was normal. It had been more than 24 hours since she threw up and she never had a fever.

Since she appeared to be on the mend, we decided to go ahead with plans to allow her to stay Friday night with my parents, who live about an hour away.

We picked a place in the middle to meet. I packed up everything, including Bitty Baby and all of her clothes. The husband chose to stay back to and take down the Christmas tree.

About 15 minutes into our drive, I heard a very bad sound from the back seat. Peanut had thrown up all over herself. And continued to do so.

You haven't lived until you have to make the decision to either allow your child to sit in her own puke for another 15 minutes while you drive home or pull over and attempt to change her on the side of a busy highway in 20 degree weather.

She feel asleep in her puke. Mother of the year right here.

We are confined to our house for the next couple days and now I am sick. She seems to be better. For now.

The potato incident, revisited

Allow me to take you back to the time when I almost killed my husband with a potato.

And Happy New's Year, everyone. May your year be blessed with joys and laughter.

Happy New Year

The Lad has impeccable timing. He was born Christmas Day, after all the celebrations and one minute before the football game the Daddyman had wanted to watch. And last night, he woke up to eat at exactly midnight so the husband and I could ring in the new year.

Between that and the fact that The Boy just independently picked up his own toys -- while singing the clean-up song, which is adorable -- I'd say the decade is off to a great start. Hope yours is, too.