Sweet moments courtesy of Peanut

I was in a hurry to feed Peanut lunch before I went to work. She was cooperating, eating her PB&J and applesauce.

Suddenly she looked up at me and asked for an orange. I peeled it and put it in a bowl for her.

"Good girl," she told me.

Guess we know who is in charge around here.

*******

After breakfast, Peanut and I were playing when she kept begging "snuckle, snuckle, snuckle."

I had no idea what she was talking about and asked her to repeat herself trying to decipher her toddler language. For an hour, she'd play and then ask me again, "snuckle, snuckle, snuckle."

Finally I asked her to show me what she wanted. She grabbed my finger and led me up the stairs to my bedroom where she pointed to the bed and said, "snuckle."

"Oh, you want to snuggle!"

"Snuckle," she said.

And so we did.

*******

Tell me your sweet moments.

Brothers

Babies are miraculous, if only for the fact that the same genes can combine over and over and produce something different every time. Clueless but Hopeful Mama was just talking about this. Here is my own proof:

The Boy, between three and four months

The Lad, three months

The Lad looks more like me and my family than The Boy ever has. He is a rectangle where The Boy is a square. He smiles more and coos more, which is a little shocking because The Boy is a social little chatterbox and I find it hard to imagine what The Lad will be like as an inquisitive toddler if he continues to be more verbal than his brother. No. Scratch that. I can imagine it: I will never have peace and quiet again.

The Lad rolls over in his crib, but only in his crib, and looks up at us when we come in to get him, like, "Hey! There you are!" He loves to get a reaction. Where The Boy would just hang onto the rings dangling from the octopus on our playmat, The Lad smacks Pulpo with a rattle or fist and laughs as he dances. He smiles as soon as he hears my voice when I pick him up from daycare, dimples digging holes in his cheeks. He giggles every time I nuzzle noses with him and shake my hair in his face.

The Lad gets bored in the carseat, even if it's out of the car. I could push The Boy around Target forever in his seat on the cart and never hear a peep. The Lad squawks his displeasure if I go more than 30 seconds without looking at or talking to him. Where The Boy transitioned slowly from one thing to another, The Lad is quick, as if he throws a switch to flip from one mode to another. Sometimes this is a blessing: He falls asleep faster than The Boy ever did. Other times, it's infuriating: One second he wants wants you and only you, the next he just wants to be left alone in his bouncy chair, and the next he wants picked up again -- NOW, DAMN IT!

The Boy made me a mother and taught me to trust my instincts. The Lad is making me realize I'll never be done learning how to mother.

Great expectations

I was a single parent tonight. The husband is working late, and that always means scrambled eggs and toast for supper. The Boy and I love it; the husband does not. When I picked up the kiddos, The Lad cooed and smiled broadly at me and The Boy yelled, "Momma!" I was sure it was going to be a good night. Driving home, I pictured The Boy playing with his blocks while I made supper and then maybe walking down to the park or at least all playing in the sandbox. I was in such a benevolent mood, when The Boy asked to watch cartoons, I smiled and said sure. I was going to be the nicest momma ever.

Then The Boy roared at supper. Again. This is my fault.

The first time The Boy looked up from his plate, grinned at me from across the table and went, "RAWR!" I laughed at him. I won't lie: I roared back. The roars grew louder, so we said, "Even dinosaurs/lions/monsters have to use inside voices," and let him quietly roar. Now the roars are just the beginning of playtime at the table. First, he's roaring, then he's racing his fork around the plate, then he's hopping in his seat. And then, as happened tonight, I'm angry and making threats I have to follow through on, no matter how silly.

I became Mean Momma, barking commands, hissing out warnings and meting out consequences. The evening ended with The Boy in bed before 7. I'll spare you the blow-by-blow. The bottom line: I won, but felt like an asshole doing it.

Everyone has a trigger; messing around at the supper table is mine. When The Boy plays instead of eating, I understand the adage that children should be seen and not heard. It's not that I don't want The Boy to talk, and I don't want to force him to eat if he's truly not hungry. I just want him to sit at the table and eat or not like a civilized human being, not a wild animal -- or, you know, a toddler. I stand by my belief that even the littlest children should be taught to behave at the table.

But I also know that my irritation and expectations border on irrational. So, I have tried to temper my expectations. You know what that's gotten me? Roaring, that's what.

How do balance your expectations of your kids with reality?

Help for a new mom, part II

I've mentioned my friend who is going to give birth to her first child soon. We all know what it is like to be in the home stretch looking at a mere few weeks. Excited with a side of worried. (Or maybe it was the other way around).

I thought it might help her if we could all tell her things that we worried about in those first few weeks with the infant home (and how the worrying really didn't do any good).

Things I worried about:

• Nipple confusion. Peanut had a couple bottles in the hospital as well as a paci. She never turned me down and we breastfed for a year. I know every kid is different but sometimes, you do what you have to do to get some rest.
• Sleeping. We held Peanut for months while she napped and I feared she would never sleep on her own. Now, she rarely gives us trouble when it is night-night time.
• Mommy confusion. I feared she would think the babysitter was her mom once I went back to work. While I know she loves it at B's and sometimes I have to tear her away, she still knows I'm her mom.
• Showering. Once the husband went back to work, I didn't know how I would shower without her crying. Since she rarely slept on her own, she rarely slept through my shower, squawking the entire time. She survived and I was clean every day.
  

What did you worry about?

Before bed

I stayed up late the other night -- so, you know, it was about 10 p.m. -- and when I finally did lay my head on my pillow, my mind wouldn't stop. Interview-heavy days at work always do that to me. You talk to enough people, and your mind just buzzes with all the new information. It must be what over-stimulated infants feel like.

As I lay in the darkness, listening to my husband's sleepy breathing, I heard The Lad snuffling in his crib. He wasn't squawking. He might have settled himself back to sleep. But I was up and went to nurse him, hoping to stave off a feeding in the wee morning hours.

I settled into the rocker and watched his mouth work. The nightlight illuminated the fuzzy curve of The Lad's head. His fingers rubbed my arm in rhythm to his sucking. I heard The Boy flop in his bed across the hall and the cat yowl as she pounced a toy mouse. When I changed The Lad mid-feeding, he opened his eyes for the first time and, seeing my face, grinned wide, his dimples showing. We finished up and I snuggled him under my chin for just a minute before settling him back into the crib.

My only thought as I returned to bed, before I slipped easily into sleep, was to wonder who got more out of these night feedings: Me or The Lad.

---

P.S. Happy birthday, Michelle!

The best way ...

The best way to spend the last day of my 20s is to watch and listen to this little Peanut:



She's been singing Happy Birthday, "Happy to mommy. Happy to mommy. Happy to mommy," then covering her face and giggling.

I can't think of any better gift.

The Mom Look

The Lad, The Boy and I were playing Momma Monster before bath the other night. They were stripped down to their diapers, and I tickled The Boy and blew raspberries -- zerberts, in our house -- on The Lad's belly, in turn.

"Get me! Get me!" The Boy squealed every time I turned my attention to his brother.

Then, as I leaned over The Lad to nuzzle his nose, I felt an open-handed smack on my back. It wasn't hard, but it definitely was a slap. I whipped up and just looked at The Boy.

My eyebrow was raised and my eyes were steely. I didn't have a mirror, however, after more than two decades of seeing that look on my mom's face, I'm fairly certain of what I looked like. I had The Mom Look. My sister sometimes could withstand that withering gaze, but I never could. We once put a hole in our backdoor, fighting over the dryer door of all things, and my sister concocted this tiny and very believable lie about how it happened. One raised eyebrow from Mom had me confessing to everything.

Apparently, my boys -- or at least one of them, The Boy -- also are going to fear The Look. Before I could say a word, The Boy's brow furrowed and his posture slumped, moving his body away from me.

"I sorry."

"Right," I said. "You're sorry. You must have forgotten we don't hit. You hit me again, you're going to time out."

"Yeah, I sorry. I good."

And he was. It happens occasionally.

Bits of updates

Update No. 1

Remember in January when I started a new schedule working nights? Well, I failed to tell you that only lasted a month. Things didn't work out for a variety of reasons so I went back to my early morning schedule. Now, I'm moving again, working a swing shift starting at noon.

This is good for a number of reasons. I'm moving into a job that I am really excited about. I get the same amount of time with Peanut as I have now but just in the mornings. I will still get to see the husband since I should be home before he goes to bed. I also will have the flexibility to work some days when I need to. I'm quite pleased with this.

Update No. 2

The pacifier. Oh the pacifier. We are being strict about paci at night-night only. It is Not Easy. We've had a couple of pretty big meltdowns over the paci but I think it is getting better. Sometimes when she asks for it and we tell her no, she is completely cool with it and goes about her business. Sometimes I can distract her into not even thinking about it after she's requested it. We've had almost a week where she only gets it at night-night so maybe, just maybe, we can beat the habit by this summer.

Update No. 3

The new attitude. Well, Peanut's attitude has simmered somewhat. She's been in a much better mood lately. Except when she's not. When she's isn't telling me "NOOOOO!" she's smiling sweetly, saying "no, thank you" and giving big hugs. The good dulls the bad, I suppose.

At the ballgame

We took the boys to a spring training game this weekend. March is one of the perks of living in Florida. The weather is just about perfect, and what's not to like about a small stadium where you can loll on the grass, eat a hot dog and drink a beer while your kid runs around and pretends to be a baseball player? Even better: taking a nap with your baby in the sun.

The Boy spent all his time running after the big kids, these boys who were 8, 9, maybe even 10 or 11 years old. These kids' parents definitely were not raising brats. They were too big to really play, but humored him. Every time The Boy tossed his red wiffle ball in their general direction, one of them would pick it up and pitch it back, underhanded so he could grab it. "Momma! Daddy!" The Boy said. "That little boy gave me my ball back."

But there was this one boy. He was probably 5 or 6, and at first, he seemed darling. He played catch with The Boy and pretended to trip and fall so The Boy could "tag" him out. When he accidentally pitched The Boy's red ball over the fence, he went and got his own baseball so their pretend game could continue. But then, while this kid was eating with his folks, The Boy found a set of twins closer to his own age to play with and the husband started playing catch with the toddlers. This older kid, having finished eating, came back in and wanted to get in on the game. Fine -- until he started snatching the ball away from The Boy and the twins. I wanted to say something, but bit my tongue. The kid obviously wanted the attention from my husband. I wanted so badly to turn around and ask that kid's father, "What is your problem? Do you not see your kid desperate for attention from a man? Do you not see him taking a ball away from kids half his age and size?!" But I didn't, and the husband handled the whole situation gracefully, purposely tossing the ball right to the toddlers and only pitching it at the older kid every few throws.

The whole scene reminded me that I can't make the world perfect for my kiddos -- and really, I shouldn't want to. I mean, I was irate about the ball snatching, but The Boy didn't seem to mind. He just ran a little harder for the next pitch.

I was so proud of him, watching him play. He's fearless in a way I don't think I ever have been. He walked right up to these kids, even the biggest ones. "You wan' play with me?" he said. He followed them up to the fence and stood on tiptoe to peer over it, his chubby fingers twined around the chainlink.

Taking my hat off to single parents

Dude. Being a single parent is hard. And I took the easy way out.

No, the husband didn't walk out. He went on a mancation to Vegas for a few days leaving me to fend for myself with Peanut. Instead of leaving her at the babysitter's for 10-plus hours a day, I took two days off work so we could hang out.

So, no working, just me and the kid and I'm exhausted. Did I mention I went to my parents' house for a couple days too?

I know. I'm a wuss.

We've been going non-stop the past couple days. Play dates, lunch dates, shopping. Peanut has caught two out of the three naps in the car leaving me with little downtime. She's also in that phase where she's whiny and wants everything her way. She's very particular to boot.

It made me realize two things: Single parents are my heroes and my husband is invaluable in so many ways.

I did eventually get a break when my parents kept Peanut overnight so I could have a girls night out - something I haven't done since Peanut was an infant.

And now the husband is home and being extra helpful. All is well and we all survived.

How was your weekend?

Questions for which I seek answers

How long does a kid need to wear a onesie?

When do kids typically stop taking naps (please don't say two, please don't say two, please don't say two)?

How often do you get a date night? A night out with your friends?

When did you move your little one out of the crib and into a big kid bed?


Feel free to answer one or all of these.

Flotsam

As I've mentioned, I also write for BabyFit. Here, I ramble on about fertility worship and Photoshop to explain why women should feel good about their pregnant bodies. In this one, I admit books can't teach you everything, especially when it comes to parenting. This article lists the things I did to get myself ready for The Lad's arrival, while this one goes over the successes and failures of trying to prepare The Boy for his little brother.

---

Someone asked today how old The Lad is, and I quickly told her 2 months.

He's 12 weeks old Friday. With The Boy, I always rounded his age up. I always was ready to move on to the next phase. When The Boy was as old as The Lad is now, I was mashing up over-ripe bananas for him "just to try." I was thinking this week I have another month before we need to worry about solids for The Lad. I'm in no rush.

"Wow," the husband said, having just asked me what I was posting. "Time flies with your second one."

That's why I'm in no rush.

---

Do your kids watch Rolie Polie Olie? The Boy discovered it at school and loves it. Rolie Olie is a robot or an alien or maybe an alien-robot, and he and all the other robot/alien things have an antenna on their heads. Unprompted the other day, The Boy took a look at The Lad's hair, where a single curl was standing straight up on his crown as it often does, and said, "Look! He's Rolie Polie Lad!"

---

The daycare ladies asked if they could give The Lad a pacifier for his naps. I said yes, though we don't use it. I'm regretting that decision. He's struggled against bedtime the last few nights, sucking madly on his fingers. I thought about just giving him the pacifier, but right now, he only gets it at school and in the car and I think -- after seeing Michelle's struggle to get Peanut to kick the paci habit -- it's best to keep The Lad's use limited.

Of course, the trade-off is multiple trips into his room to shush him to sleep.

---

Between the extra shushings and The Boy's staying up a bit later because of daylight savings, my reading time is being cut to shreds. I went from reading a half dozen books or more for the last six months to just two measly books so far in March. Sigh. I miss reading.

---

And now, the husband and I are off to fill out March Madness brackets. I always just guess, but even the husband is resorting to that tactic this year thanks to our lack of free time. How many of you are filling out brackets? Got any tips? Who should I root for?

Flip of a switch

The husband and I have been blessed with an easy child.

She says please and thank you. She goes to bed with a smile on her face and rarely a peep. She eats well, plays well and has never-ending kisses and hugs. Her fits are kept to a minimum.

Something changed last week. She's still our sweet little girl, except when she's not. And when she's not? She's a Hot Mess.

I have no idea what happened. At first I thought it was an illness. She had a stomach virus at the beginning of the week. But then she got over it and her crankiness didn't go away.

One morning she flopped on the floor, screaming and crying, refusing to do anything. I have never seen her act like that. She didn't want breakfast. She didn't want Elmo. She didn't want to go back to bed. She didn't want to change her clothes. It made getting out the door nearly impossible. At one point, I called the husband and told him I didn't think we could subject this child on anyone else.

She has since thrown multiple fits over various things. One time she was mad because parmesan cheese was on the menu on which she was trying to color. (It only took the husband and I five minutes to figure out what was causing the meltdown). Another time it took her almost 45 minutes to shake off her Z-monsters from her nap, spending the entire time in my lap, with her paci and her blanket.

She gets angry if her banana breaks in half or if her bagel doesn't come in one piece. Bedtimes are not always a simple night-night and have become plagued with screaming and crying.

We typically ignore the fit unless she is really worked up at which point I try to remove her from the situation and quietly talk to her about calming down while holding her. Admittedly, when she's on a real tear, I've been known to snap at her to "knock it off."

She's 20 months old this week so I'm assuming this is an early onset of the terrible twos. So this is normal, right?

Right?

Humor me.

So this is parenthood No. 13

After Peanut's bath we tend to let her run around her room naked, drinking pretend tea from her tea set, reading books, playing peek-a-boo, general merriment.

It's our version of diaper roulette.

Sunday night, we lost.

As I folded her clothes and put them away, I turned around just in time to see Peanut squat on the floor and leave me a present.

I shrieked, "We do NOT poop on the carpet. We POOP in the potty."

Peanut pouted, the husband came running and ushered her off to the potty as I cleaned up.

I heard him softly tell her, "It's OK. Mommy was just a little shocked that you pooped."

Instantly I felt bad for yelling. I went to Peanut and apologized before quickly putting a diaper on her.

Peaceful delegation

The husband has started taking care of chores during The Lad's mid-night feeding. While I nursed and rocked the other night, he folded a load of boy laundry. He flopped a pair of pants over onto themselves and then half rolled, half folded them into a square. One onesie was folded in quarters; the next one had its sleeves tucked in before being folded into thirds.

"Do you realize you fold no two onesies alike?"

"Huh? They're like snowflakes," the husband grinned. I laughed.

"You know," I said. "I think this is a sign I'm maturing. Two years ago, I would have had you refold those -- or just folded them myself and been angry."

A night or two later, the two of us were trying to wrangle both boys into the tub. The Boy was running around in his diaper and socks between his bedroom and The Lad's, where I was stripping the baby, and hooting "Look at me, Daddy!" as he ran past the bathroom where the husband was filling the tub. I corralled The Boy toward his daddyman who took off the kiddo's diaper, swept him up under the arms and deposited him into the water.

"Ah! My socks! My socks are in dere!"

The husband and I laughed, diffusing The Boy's distress over his soaked socks. We all giggled.

"I think this is another sign," the husband said.

His take surprised me. Being angry over a pair of already-dirty socks getting wet never occurred to me in that moment with my arms full of naked baby, two boys to wash and a lengthy to-do list waiting for after bedtime. But you know, he's right. A year ago, I probably would have been really annoyed at the very least. HOW could he forget something as simple as taking off the kid's socks? NOW they would have to be hung up before going in the dirty laundry. Do I have to do EVERYTHING? He can't even handle a BATH? I would have felt bad about it later, probably, and apologized -- likely after a lengthy fight -- but the irritation would have happened. I'm a perfectionist. Learning to share parenting with my husband has been one of the hardest things for me to learn since The Boy's arrival.

But I am learning, and having a real partner -- allowing him to be a real partner -- has made all the difference in the return to work. I never felt overwhelmed last week, the first one where we both were at work and both boys were in daycare. Yes, I had to pick up and drop off the boys, but the husband took his lunch hour to replenish the diaper supply. Yes, I had to get dinner on my own before the husband got home, but he made lunches every night. Yes, I'm handling night-feedings, but, as I said, the husband is picking up extra chores during those wee hours.

With my more relaxed attitude, I've even been able to appreciate help from The Boy. He tells me if The Lad is sleeping in the car or if he's lost his pacifier. He rocks The Lad and shares germs, as evidenced by The Lad's snotty nose. He's even serving as a translator.

I was rocking The Lad today in his bedroom while the husband and The Boy ate a late lunch after their run. The Lad was unhappy, screaming and wriggling and squirming on my shoulder.

"C'mon, Lad. What is your problem?!"

All I got in response was more screaming, until the husband came to the door chuckling with a response from The Boy.

"He said, 'He don't want to nap.'"

Helpful. Never would have figured that one out.

Things that shouldn't be put in a diaper bag

There are many things that probably shouldn't go in a diaper bag.

Dangerous things like knives and matches and whatnot.

Something I didn't think I'd have to explain? It's probably not best to throw your underwear into the diaper bag.

But that's what our babysitter found this morning in Peanut's diaper bag.

Let me back up. My husband has been working out at the gym in our office recently during lunchtime so he has been packing things to clean up after.

For reasons beyond my comprehension, he threw his clean underwear into our daughter's diaper bag this morning. And then forgot to take them out.

Yes. That's right. Our babysitter found my husband's underwear in our daughter's diaper bag.

I can't make this stuff up, kids.

Thankfully, our babysitter has a sense of humor and we won't need to seek new childcare over the weekend.

Cloth vs. disposable

As we discuss the possibility of the The Next Baby, I've thought about doing some things differently.

One area I want to explore is our diapers. Do we keep using disposable or go to cloth?

I care about the environment. I also care about my sanity and fear disposable might just be a bit too much work. I've looked into the possibility of a diaper service and there is one in our area. Unfortunately, after doing some quick calculations, I'm not sure we would actually save money this way.

The thought of washing them myself is more than my mind can handle to be honest with you. Plus, since Peanut is at a babysitter's during the day, we'd probably need to look at doing half and half.

But there is the nice aspect of not filling landfills AND I could get these super cute diaper covers from etsy.

Anyone have good experiences with cloth? Bad experiences? No experience and just think I am crazy for thinking about this?

The hard way

The Boy likes to use a big-boy cup at supper. He still uses a sippy at breakfast and through the day because he's roaming and I'm lazy. At dinner, he's contained, so we forgo the lid and everyone is happy.

Or rather, we were happy until The Boy discovered he could blow bubbles in his milk or suction the cup to his face or make echoing sounds into it. Then, he was happy and Momma was not.

I admonished: Boy, we don't blow bubbles. Boy, drink from your cup. Boy, you're going to spill, tipping your cup up like that. Boy, you can either drink from your cup or I'm going to take it away. I often made good on that threat, prompting cries of "My milk! I just want my milk, Momma!" I would think the lesson had stuck, only to repeat the whole scene the next night.

But last night, while the husband and I were talking and not completely focused on The Boy, he learned the hard way:


The cup sort of exploded on him. I'm not quite sure which of his tricks caused it. He was completely distraught, and the husband and I laughed so hard I cried.

"That's what happens when you play with your cup, Boy," the husband said between chuckles. "Did you learn your lesson?"

"YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!" The Boy wailed.

"No -- get the camera first," I said to the husband, who was reaching for the dish towel.

The milk droplets on his eyelashes needed to be captured for posterity. I wanted proof to show The Boy his parents are being mean for his own damn good, though I know this won't be the last time he learns the hard way. I just hope he can smile like this after those other hard lessons -- or most of them, anyway.

Two cents from the backseat

Scene 1: Momma, Boy and Lad driving home in rainy weather and rush-hour traffic.

Momma: Crap! (Slams on breaks to stop from rear-ending some idiot who pulled out in front)

Boy: Whoa! (giggle) You crash Momma?

Momma: No, I didn't crash. I just had to stop from hitting this guy.

Boy: You better slow down Momma. You crash prolly.

---

Scene 2: Momma, Boy and Lad driving home from work/school.

Boy: We go by diggers?

Momma: Yes. We'll drive by the diggers.

Boy: We go by diggers?

Momma: Yes, but we aren't there yet.

Boy: We go by diggers?

Momma: Yes, Boy. But we aren't there yet. We have to drive down the boulevard and then the parkway and then we'll turn into our neighborhood and see the diggers.

Boy: Hurry. Hurry. Hurry! We see diggers!

Momma: I'm going as fast as I can. If I go faster, the policeman will pull me over and I'll get a ticket.

Boy: You get a ticket?

Momma: Yep, it's like a timeout. You want Momma to get a timeout?

Boy: (giggling) Yeah! Hurry, Momma. We see diggers.

---

My mom had a speech she gave every time we kids opened our mouths about her driving. I thought of it after these episodes but couldn't recall the exact words, so asked her. Two words in, and I was repeating it as easily as the Pledge of Allegiance. It's as much a part of my childhood as the Pledge.

"Until you are 16 years of age,
"You are a passenger in this car.
"You can -- and will -- sit down
"and keep your mouth shut."
(End with ad-libbed threats of ejection and/or banishment from vehicle.)

Perhaps it's time to break this out for my little backseat driver.

So this is parenthood No. 12

The husband hugged and kissed Peanut good night the other night and thanked her for giving him a little extra snot.

I took her into my arms to carry her upstairs and asked her a kiss. She coughed in my mouth.

"We don't get paid enough," the husband said.

You have a baby ... in a bar

Every morning I check CNN for the latest news. The other morning, I saw a large picture of a man wearing a baby. In a bar.

I read this article about the RAGING debate about taking you children to bars.

Here is a comment from the pro side, a stay-at-home father in Brooklyn:

"I'm not going to keep her out past 7 p.m. When the bar starts filling up, that's when we head home," he said. "It's responsible parenting and responsible adult behavior. I'm not knocking back double vodkas while my daughter is stumbling around."

Here is a comment from the con side:

"I will get up on the subway for kids. I will be tolerant of them kicking the back of my seat while seeing a G-rated movie. But let me have my bars," said Julieanne Smolinski, 26, who feels guilty sucking down suds in front of staring 5-year-olds. The adults who bring their offspring to bars, she suggests, are "clinging to their youth."

I tend to agree with the con side.

I don't have any problem with drinking. I've been known to drink. I've been known to drink in front of my daughter. At home.

I get twitchy and twirly if Peanut acts out at a family restaurant. I might meltdown if I take her to an adult bar where only adults are expected to be so they can have some adult fun.

It's selfish to take a kid to a bar. What fun can they have there? It's not like many bars are stocked with crayons and coloring menus. Plus, you are probably going to annoy 90 percent of the clientele.

Hillary and I talked about this and she admitted to taking her children to a sports bar. (She followed it up with the fact that she wouldn't take her child out in footie pajamas, an obvious slam to my parenting fashion style.) BUT she said the sports bar had a kids menu with crayons. That to me is OK. A place with crayons is a place open to children.

What do you think? Agree? Disagree?

She Wolf

My mom hugged me tight when I got off the plane, returning home after a quarter in Mexico. It was the longest I had ever been away from home.

"You smell different," she said. It was the first thing she said to me.

My sister and I have laughed at her about that for years. You're such a she-wolf, we tell her.

---

I picked up the boys from daycare this afternoon. The Boy threw himself at my legs on the playground -- "Hi, Momma! I gotta get my cup." -- and we both went inside to gather his things and The Lad. Ms. L handed over my baby and ran down the details of his day. I tried to listen, but was distracted by what I had forgotten was the hardest part of taking a baby to daycare.

He smells like daycare.

The Lad smells like the flowery perfume Ms. C was wearing this morning when she took him from me. He smells like the soap Ms. L uses and the detergent and bleach that wash the crib sheets. He smells like wipes and other babies.

Snapping him into his carseat, I stuck my nose in his face and breathed in his milky breath. I snuffled The Lad's neck when we got into the house, before putting dinner on the stove to heat. I sniffed the top of his fuzzy head before I settled him in to nurse. Finally, I was satisfied he still smells like my baby -- that indescribable scent of happiness, of something that is part of me -- under that daycare aroma.

---

I need to call my mom. I owe her an apology. Another one.

I love ...

The way Peanut says "tickle" and "peek-a-boo." She has the sweetest little voice regularly, but for some reason, whenever she says these two things, it sounds even sweeter.

The sound of her little feet running in the kitchen upstairs while I'm doing laundry downstairs.

When Peanut insists that we all get up and dance to the opening song of "Elmo's World." She then must point out Dorothy the goldfish to us and then waves hello to Mr. Noodle.

My husband's disdain for Disney while watching "Tinkerbell: The Lost Treasure." He thinks it is "ballsy" of Disney to invent a way the seasons change and give the fairies credit. And yet he still chuckled at some parts with Peanut curled up on his lap.

Hillary's post on good books she's read. It came in very helpful when I went to the library today especially after my last couple trips have been busts.

All the great recipes everyone left on Hillary's crockpot post. I can't wait to try these.

What do you love right now?

RIP Mable Hoffman

Mothers everywhere should have a moment of silence: Mable Hoffman, the woman who wrote the first best-selling cookbook for slow-cookers, has died. (Seriously. Follow the link. It's worth it just to see a picture of this woman in all her 1970s glory.)

Coincidentally, I already was planning to write a post soliciting slow-cooker recipes next week before I saw that Wall Street Journal piece about Miss Mable and "Crockery Cookery." Beginning Monday, I'll have to prepare dinner, entertain The Boy and feed The Lad all in the hour between my homecoming and the husband's. Using our Crock-Pot is the only way I can figure to get all this done. I have a few really good slow-cooker recipes, but I could use some more.

I'll also take any recipes I can do ahead on the weekend and refrigerate or freeze to reheat during the week.

Help a momma out, would you?

A simple gift

Work was a whirlwind today: interviews all morning, a live event to cover and more interviews in the afternoon. I completed my to-do list -- even finding time to pump and feed myself -- but needed the husband to both drop off and pick up The Boy.

The husband, who had been struggling with our taxes all day, pulled into the driveway about a minute after me. We were standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the kitchen, washing lunch dishes while holding The Lad (me) and making fried rice (him), with The Boy rocketing around the room when the husband turned to me.

"I'm really sorry for all the times I had you pick up The Boy while you were on leave," he said. "It's really hard to do that and feed (The Lad) and fix dinner and finish up everything else you didn't get done during the day."

Do you see why I love him?

Office baby talk

"Are you glad to be back? How's the baby?"

I have been asked these questions I don't even know how many times over the last three days. Every time, I whip out the stock response -- "Yes! He's great!" -- while my mind speeds through the social calculus.

Regularly chats with me at work: Add generic cliche describing parenthood

Is a friend outside of work: Add anecdote

Is parent of similar-aged children: Add sleep deprivation/breastfeeding joke

Is authority figure: Add one reason why work is better than babies

Only talks to me at printer/bathroom/refrigerator: No extras

Is childless: Add self-deprecating joke about going to bed at sundown

Purses lips disapprovingly when I say it's good to be back: Throw in talk about daycare, just to spite

I don't want to be the mom who talks endlessly about her kids, but I know I am sometimes. It's hard not to. Look -- even the Wall Street Journal is talking about this tricky social calculation. I'm not stupid. I know most people are just being polite when they ask after my family. But I, like all new moms, am sleep deprived. Keeping us all fed and clothed and bathed takes up all of my time outside work. And these days, I've got pumping to keep track of even at work. Sometimes I miscalculate. I rattle on until glazed eyes and excessive nods show me my mistake. Once or twice this week, I've even gone too far in my attempts to rein in the parental blather and ended up with awkward, smiling lulls as the person I assumed just wanted a Yes! He's great! waits for me to tell him something real.

Math was never my strong suit.

Productive parenting

Peanut screaming: night-night, night-night, daddy!

Me over the screaming while changing her diaper: Give me angry, show me angry. Oh you do that so well. Now give me sad. Gooooooood.

Peanut screaming: night-night, night-night, paci!

The husband over the screaming: You are sooooo going to bed.

Peanut screaming: night-night, night-night, daddy!

Me over the screaming while putting her pajamas on: If your noggin wasn't so big we wouldn't have such a hard time getting your pjs over your head.

Peanut still screaming: night-night, night-night, paci!

The husband over the screaming: I'm putting on my hood of silence (pulls hood up from sweatshirt).

The end.

Bits on the return to work

The Boy took one look at me this morning in heels and good clothes and said: "Where you going, Momma?"

Apparently, I was not looking as put-together as I thought in my maternity leave uniform of jeans and a shirt.

---

I pump in the radio room at work. It's isolated, quiet, all the windows are covered and lighting up the "On Air" sign outside the door guarantees my privacy.

It's like my boobs have their own show.

---

I called the husband to check on something. He was trying to clean with The Lad, fighting sleep, strapped to his chest.

I tried not to gloat too much as I leaned back in my desk chair.

---

The Lad seemed to miss me. He was screeching when I got home, but stopped as soon as I picked him up.

He let out a sigh and settled on my shoulder. My heart melted.

---

Three and a half hours later, after feeding The Lad three times -- he was making up for not eating much with the Daddyman all day -- having dinner, dealing with a tantrum, deciding to skip the boys' bathnight, putting The Boy to bed, making lunches and talking to the husband, I sat down to write this post and wondered where the hell the time went.

I'm not sure how I'm going to do this once the husband isn't here to all day to handle dinner. But honestly, I'm too tired to think about it now. I'm going to bed.