Weird

Breastfeeding amazes me. Women's bodies are so weird and perfect.

I pumped only about 13 oz yesterday, not enough to replace the 15 oz The Lad drinks everyday at daycare. But when I picked him up, Miss C informed me still had a whole bottle left. That always happens. The days I pump less than normal are the days The Lad eats less. We're in sync even when we're away from each other for nearly nine hours.

Also, I've had more intense cravings since giving birth than I ever had carrying The Lad. I want peanut butter and nuts and cheese and eggs and meat and oatmeal. Oh lord! I would give my right arm for a bowl of oatmeal and raisins right now.

And what foods are good for milk supply? Foods high in protein and yes, oatmeal.

Lunchtime

I don't normally write about my job, but today, it seems relevant. As I've mentioned, I'm a reporter. I cover health issues, among other things, for a local paper. I'm working on an article about school lunches, along with almost every other health/school reporter in the country since Michelle Obama and then Jamie Oliver took up the crusade against childhood obesity.

Anyway, this morning, I went to one of our local elementary schools to check out the cafeteria options. The school-cooked lunches looked and smelled mostly as they do in my memory. The mac-and-cheese still was those big elbow noodles in a creamy orange sauce. Chocolate milk -- 1 percent now -- still was the favored drink. Peaches still quivered delicately in squares of jello, topped with a piping of whipped cream and a maraschino cherry.

What kind of shocked me: the packed lunches.

One kid had a Sprite, Pop-Tarts and a bologna sandwich. Gatorade or CapriSuns were the most common beverage coming out of a lunch bag. Several kids had Lunchables, which dietitians with The Cancer Project have identified as one of the worst things you can feed a child. Public schools have taken a lot of flak for offering chips, but the ones I saw today were baked, at least. The ones from the lunchboxes (and there were many) -- yeah, not so much.

A typical lunch for The Boy is 1/2 a PB&J sandwich, yogurt and fruit. He gets water or juice at school. Granted, he's 2, but the lunches the husband and I pack for ourselves are similar.

I'm curious: What do your kids eat at lunch? If they're school-aged, do you let them buy lunch? Why or why not? If you pack their lunch, what's in the bag?

How clean is your house?

Awhile ago, my sister was cleaning her house. Her toddler son looked at her and said, "Mommy, who is coming over?"

No one was but he associated cleaning the house with company.

I laughed at the time but I now completely understand.

I looked around our living areas this morning and was appalled by the amount of stuff strewn about. Crayons, an army of Little People, books, dolls all carelessly left behind.

There are handprints on the large window in the front of the house. I don't know how long they've been there but it's safe to say months because why waste the window cleaner? More handprints will be on the window before I can safely stow away the Windex.

I'm beginning to fear we might have another incident like this.

We do clean. In fact, the husband is a stickler for a clean kitchen. He makes sure the counters are wiped down and all of the dishes washed before going to bed each night.

I dust, vacuum, sweep, mop and wipe down bathrooms each weekend. Just that makes me feel like I'm ahead of the game.

For about two hours on Saturdays, our house looks presentable. Then Peanut wakes up from her nap and becomes a Tasmanian Devil leaving plastic food, tea sets and blocks in her wake.

I don't know how one little person can make such a mess.

We need to be better about making her pick up things when she is done playing with them but sometimes it just isn't worth it, knowing she will come right back to it 5 minutes. We actually hid her bins of Little People because she got into the habit of just dumping them out and walking away. She found them though and began yelling, "PEEEEEEEEEEEOPLE!" until I got them out for her.

And what did she do?

"Dump it, momma."

Then walked away.

How often do you clean? Is your house picked up every night?

What happened to me?

As I type, I am listening to:

"MOM-MA! MOM-MA! MOM-MA! MOM-MAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAA! MOMMMMMMMAAAAAAAA! AAAAAA! AAAAAA! "

You get the picture. The Boy is in bed, throwing a huge fit because neither I nor the husband will bring him his water bottle. We are not bringing him the water bottle because:

1. We are, in fact, planning to get serious about potty-training sooner rather than later and don't think drinking a 16 oz water bottle after lights out is going to help; and

2. The Boy has been using the water bottle as a stall tactic for bed time for the last several days.

(Seriously. The kid just screamed so hard he made himself cough. This is ridiculous.)

Last night, after he spent 10 minutes screaming to let us know the water bottle had fallen on the floor, could we PLEEEEEEEEASE pick it up, the husband went in and took away the fallen water bottle. He didn't say a word to The Boy, who already had been told once it was night time and he needed to sleep; he just took the bottles and left. (More coughing, folks.) Then, The Boy spent another 10 minutes yelling and sobbing, "What happened to me? Momma, what happened to me?"

I would like to know the answer to that myself.

The Boy, once we got past colic, has been a stellar sleeper. We did a couple nights of the dreaded cry-it-out, during which he cried all of 20 minutes before he went to sleep -- and how those 20 minutes killed me -- and then: silence.

(All is quiet now. Scratch that. He just heard me talking to the husband and is now yelling, "MA! MA! MA-AH!")

Now, I'm laughing at his theatrics, because that is obviously what they are. Anyway, back to what I was saying: I've heard of the 4-month sleep regression, but is there a 2-year sleep regression? The Boy still is sleeping soundly once he nods off, but oh! he does not want to go peacefully into that good night. (Apologies to Dylan Thomas. Also, my mother somewhere is laughing maniacally and remembering the many nights I insisted I was just "resting my eyes.") The Boy is doing his damnedest to turn bedtime into a battlefield, though the husband and I are refusing to take the bait.

(And now we're quiet again. Be strong. That's the moral of the story here.)

All those Friday nights watching SuperNanny teach parents to silently march children into bed and not respond to their screams are paying off. Who says reality TV is trash?

Not Martha Stewart

Cooking is not something I enjoy doing in my free time. I'm not a huge fan of baking either. It's not that I dislike these things but I could think of a few tasks I'd rather do.

However, when I do cook or bake, I like to do a good job or at least make it look like I put some work into it.

So, I'm going to share one of my secret recipes with you. It's simple and presents nicely.

When I was little, my mom used to make fruit pizzas and it was always one of my favorites. It had a sugar cookie crust, cream cheese-based icing and fruit. It looked great and tasted better. The problem was always serving it. It tended to fall apart.

I found a way around this last year by making individual cookies with the icing and fruit on them. These worked great and have proven to be popular. I started off using the sugar cookie mix in a bag then made it easier by just using the pre-made dough.

I've now made it even simpler. I bought fresh sugar cookies at the bakery. Ten cents a piece.

I topped them with the icing (cream cheese, powder sugar for sweetness and lemon juice to taste all whipped together with a mixer) and added some fruit.

Simple, yummy and presentable. It looks like something I spent a lot of time on when in reality it took about 15 minutes. I would show you a picture but they were all eaten before I could take one.

Road trip advice wanted

My mother, sister and nephews are coming for a week-long visit in five days. They are driving from Ohio. Google says it is a 1,149-mile, 18:52 drive.

My nephews are 4 and 3.

The original thought was for Mom and Lex to split up the drive over two days. Lexi wants to do it in a day. The original plan was to leave early Saturday morning; Mom was talking the other day about leaving Friday night. Impatience runs in our family.

So, both to help them and because the trip is all I can think about until they get here, I ask: What's your best advice for surviving a road trip with kids?

The last I heard, the plan was to leave at a time when the boys could sleep for the first part of the trip. They also will have a portable DVD player in the car for entertainment. Lex was planning snack packs when I talked to her last. But what else can you suggest to help them get down here with everyone's sanity intact?

Teenage boy

My sweet little 21-month-old darling daughter has been replaced with a teenage boy.

She is eating us out of house and home. The child is non-stop.

"Cewul, milk, momma. Sausage, momma. Gogurt, momma. Cheese. Cackers. App-sauce. Fru-snacks."

And that's usually just the mornings.

One morning she had two bowls of cereal, a string cheese stick, apple sauce and some crackers. By the time I dropped her off at the babysitter's at 11:15, she was getting into her lunch bag. She pulled out her turkey sandwich and was trying to eat it through the plastic bag.

I assured the sitter that we do actually feed her.

I've been trying to give her healthy things and boost her protein a bit to fill her up. I assume this is a growth spurt. I'm not super worried about her weight since the last time we were at the doctor's she was in the 25th percentile. Plus since she only stops moving when she's asleep, I'm guessing she's burning it all off.

I just hope we can keep enough food in the house.

How to make baby food

YUM!

Trying to find baby food recipes is actually how I discovered blogs. A fateful googling led me Swistle's tutorials and that first blog crush -- a blush, the husband calls it -- led me to another and another. I threatened for months to start a blog of my own, and then Michelle prodded me into actually doing it. (She's very bossy, people.) Sixteen months later, I'm bringing things full circle with a baby food-making tutorial of my own.

So, here's the basic idea: Cook food. Whirl it into mush. Feed the baby.

I'm not being facetious here. It really is that simple, though different cooking methods work best for different foods. Sweet potatoes -- always a hit with The Boy -- were easiest roasted. I would throw a sweet potato in the oven when I got home from work, take it out after dinner and puree it before bed. Once The Boy was eating food well, I just mashed it up with a fork. This method worked for pretty much any root vegetable or squash. Peas and other frozen vegetables and most fruits I stewed.

Take these apples.

Peel them, cut them into roughly the same size pieces and throw them in a pot with just a little bit of water. Just enough to keep it all from burning.

Cook them until they smell good and you can mash them with a spoon. By the time The Boy was 10 months old, here's where I stopped after a splash of water and maybe some cinnamon.

But The Lad's still a little guy, so these apples are going into the food processor. The Boy always hated this part because of the noise. He called it "dat ting" and screamed. Whir them around with some water until they get the right texture. If it's too thick, add more water -- the cooking water if there's any left.

When it looks about right, dump it into a container. Smaller batches like this one go into small storage jars in the fridge, where it will be good for a few days. Big batches, I freeze in ice cube trays. Two cubes or so usually is about right for a feeding.

So, that's it.

The only things I ever had trouble with were green beans -- they were just too stringy and never got properly mushed for wee palates -- and meat, which was too gross for me. I just couldn't bring myself to make meat pastes. Later, I would whir up servings of our meals -- chicken soup, for example, was really easy to do.

The Boy still got jarred food occasionally, mostly at school or when we were traveling, and we still gave him the powdered cereal. But the nice thing about homemade food was The Boy seemed to transition more easily to table food. Before he was a year old, most of his meals were just slightly modified versions of ours. That's actually how I got around the meat pastes: I either gave him jarred stuff or bits of well-cooked meat cut very very very very very small.

With The Boy, I spent a lot of time at Wholesome Baby Food deciding what to feed him next and how much. This entry on Honest Fare gave me some new ideas for flavor combinations once The Lad gets a little older, though really, feeding the baby more or less what we ate was the best thing for our family.

Am I glowing?

Most people give you a year after you are married before they start asking when you plan to have children. I wondered how long it would take after the first child before the question popped up again.

Apparently it is 21 months.

I have had three people ask me in the past week if I am pregnant. Three. While I am not the most fit person in the world, I don't think it has anything to do with my appearance (at least I hope not).

Person No. 1 - A friend sent me a message telling me she had a feeling I was pregnant. I wouldn't think anything of it except that this same friend asked me if I was pregnant the day I went to the doctor's office to have it confirmed. I hadn't even told my family yet. I hadn't told anyone I was going to the doctor.

Person No. 2 - I pulled a co-worker aside this week and told her I had a secret. She got all excited and asked if it was going to make her scream. I didn't know what she was talking about at first. Then it hit me. "Did you think I was going to tell you I'm pregnant?" She nodded. I later decided not to wear a certain shirt. I bought it thinking that while it wasn't a maternity shirt, I could easily wear it when I do get pregnant. I will just save it for that time.

Person No. 3 - While talking to another co-worker, I mentioned Peanut's love of bossing the cat around. I said I can't imagine how she will be with a sibling. Her face lit up, she glanced down at my belly and excitedly asked, "Are you pregnant?"

Lordy, do you people know something I don't?

First dentist's appointment

"Guess what we're doing today?" I said to The Boy before he was even out of bed.

"Dunno," he said, grinning.

"We're going to the dentist! Isn't that exciting?!"

"Yeah. I'm 'cited. We going now?"

He literally bounced out of bed. Never underestimate the power of jazz hands paired with an enthusiastic tone people.

The thrills of dental hygiene have been the main topic of conversation around our house for several weeks, basically since I realized we were remembering to brush The Boy's teeth an average of four nights a week and that my next dentist appointment -- and his first -- was fast approaching. We started brushing morning and night -- twice as many chances to forget remember! -- and I tried to teach him to swish and spit and say aaaah! I was unsuccessful. He swallows everything and can't keep his tongue in his mouth, which is unsurprising considering I've spent two years encouraging him to either keep his food and drink in his mouth or yelling at him to stick his tongue out now so I could see what choking hazard he had stuffed in there.

Regardless, all my hyperbole and wide-eyed explanations managed to get him excited for the dentist. He sat between the husband and I in the lobby as I filled out paperwork -- "Can I write, Momma? Where dat dentist?" -- and obediently followed the dentist down the hall to climb into the big chair.

"That's Mr. Slurpee," the dentist told The Boy, touching his cheek with the suction straw. Our dentist is a very nice man and all his hygienists are wonderful, which helped. Half the office was standing around the exam room door, cooing over my kiddo, and he reveled in the attention.

I had to have my own teeth cleaned, so couldn't stay and watch, but the husband reports:

He pretty much just sat there quietly, did what they told him to do, answered whatever they asked. He held the tools when they gave them to him like they were his lifeline. He was clearly nervous, but also very curious.

(Unsurprising considering his role model.)

They examined his teeth and polished them, then the dentist gave him a latex glove blown up like a balloon.

"He just did so good!" I heard the receptionist say as the husband left with the boys. "He did better than some grown-ups."

"Some grown-ups" includes The Boy's father, who pouts like a toddler every time he has to go to the dentist. I'm really hoping this first good experience sets the tone for the rest of The Boy's dental check-ups. As it was today, he was so excited he went right up to his teacher at daycare, baring his teeth and shouting, "I got my teeth cleaned!"

I can't believe I'm going to utter these words

I think I want a tattoo.

(Somewhere, my poor mother's heart just fluttered and she has no idea why.)

I've been thinking about this for awhile but I'm too big of a chicken to actually do it. It seems like something better in theory than in practice.

I always wanted one in college but at the threat of having my college tuition taken away from me, I decided against it.

But now, I think I want Peanut's name somewhere. The thing is, I want it somewhere I can see it but no one else can, which kind of makes it pointless.

I thought about getting her name on the inside of my wrist (which I recognize is visible to most of the world. Including my mother.) It would say Emery. Not Peanut.

I just don't think I can bring myself to do it. I think it looks cool on other people but I just don't think I can pull it off.

Let me live vicariously through you. Do you have a tattoo? What is it? Do you want one?

Life lesson #3

The first time I screamed, "I hate you!" at my mother -- or at least the first time I remember doing it, sometime in elementary school -- I expected her to break into sobs and beg my forgiveness. What she actually did was whip around with her eyes flashing and yell right back:

"Yes! I have achieved my goal as a mother!"

---

Last night was a good one that ended on a sour note when The Boy balked at picking up toys before bed. Again. The husband and I dumped him into bed unceremoniously after taking away his baskets of "friends." No one was happy. The pouty-lipped Boy huddled into the corner of his bed, curled around his blanky. I retreated to living room angry and then tearful.

I swing widely these days between worry that I am raising a brat and fretting that in trying not to raise a brat, my kid is going to hate me. I try to be consistent and fair in discipline, and I think my actions are, for the most part. But inside, in my head, I always feel like I'm too much -- too stern, too indulgent, too soft or too harsh.

I said this to the husband last night as we lay in the dark before bed.

"It doesn't matter what your kids think of you now," he said. "It matters what they think of you when they grow up, and what they become as they do."

---

I think that's what Mom meant.

Hardest

There have been many hard things to deal with being a mom. Sleepless nights followed by work days that need to be productive. Leaving my child in someone else's care. Letting her cry it out.

But I discovered one of the hardest things recently.

Keeping a straight face while Peanut tries to soften me up while she's in time out.

She smacked at me the other day because I was trying to put her shoe on. She didn't want her shoe on.

So I sat her in time out and told her "No hitting. We do not hit." She smiled at me.

She SMILED at me even when I used my stern voice.

She then giggled a bit, smiled some more and tilted her head toward her should like, "You can't be mad at me. I'm cute."

Inside, I was laughing. Outside, I actually held it together. I told her it wasn't funny and that we don't hit. We use our words when we are mad.

She then realized she was in trouble and her face crumbled, making it even worse.

After a minute (or 30 seconds) in time out. I hugged her, kissed her, told her I loved her and put her shoes on.

This child is Trouble.

Baby in a basket

Sometimes, the title of a post says it all.

Perhaps The Lad has inherited my love of doing laundry.

Or, lord help me, maybe he likes being behind bars.

Or maybe being able to sit up and see on his own is just that exciting.

I guess I could have called this post: Cheaper than a Bumbo.

(And, for the record, The Lad was in the basket for about as long as it took to take these pictures and was supervised the entire time. /disclaimer.)

Juxtaposition

My morning as a mommy:

We eat "cewul and milk." We play tickle monsters until we are both breathless from laughing so hard. We chase each other around the house giggling and squealing.

Peanut climbs in her toy box and tells me everything she finds. "Momma, I find clock. Momma, I find princhesh. Momma, I find foo-ball."

I negotiate diaper changes and fruit snacks. I cook dinner for Peanut and Daddy to have later. I clean and do laundry when there is time.

My afternoon/evening at my job at the newspaper:

I work with stories on a veteran who killed himself outside of the Veteran's Affair Office, a body found behind the job's center that is just down the street from our office and an elderly couple found dead in their house, a possible murder-suicide. All in one day.

Traffic accidents. Shootings. Ribbon cuttings. Fires. Contentious public meetings. Officials in trouble. Elections.

I feel completely comfortable in both roles and find each rewarding in different ways.

This is why I am working mom.

Why I'm happy to have boys

The husband and I have known since the summer of 2002 what we would name a little girl. Those of you who know us have heard this story (probably ad nauseam), but to catch everyone up: We were driving back to DC from a long weekend in Virginia Beach in the husband's crappy little car that had no AC. The wind flapping in the windows made listening to music impossible, so we filled the hours with one of those rambling, silly conversations you have early in a relationship. We somehow got onto the topic of names, what we liked and what we would use for a child. The husband was being his ridiculous self, just reading things off signs -- "What about Exit? What about Weigh Station?" -- as we got close to his apartment near the American University metro stop.

"What about Tenley?"

It's the AU-Tenleytown stop.

"For a boy or a girl?" I said, taking him seriously for the first time in 100 miles.

"A girl," he said, surprising himself, I think.

"Yeah."

And it was decided.

Both The Boy and The Lad would have been named Tenley if they had been a girl -- Tenley Jane for the The Boy, Tenley Caroline for The Lad. The one little twinge of longing I felt after finding out The Lad was a boy was for a dark-haired girl named Tenley.

Thank goodness she never arrived.

The husband and I watch very little TV and almost no reality shows. So it wasn't until weeks after The Lad was born that I heard one of the women on The Bachelor was named Tenley. I read earlier this week that TV names, including Tenley and Sookie, are the names rising fastest in popularity.

People would have thought I named my child for a reality show contestant.

Simple solutions

I have hemmed and hawed over child-sized coat racks for months online and at Target and HomeGoods and every other store I happened across a 2x4 brightly painted and stuck with pegs. I wanted something to hang in The Boy's room, at his height, so he could put away his hats and jacket and bags himself. Closet doorknobs will only hold so much, you know. This shouldn't have been a difficult decision. But so many of them were too cutesy -- grinning zoo animals, anyone? -- and I balked at even the simple ones because they often required three or more holes in the wall. All I could think was that we would have to fill in those holes in a couple years when the coatrack was at the wrong height for my growing Boy.

As I said: Hem and haw.

Then, last weekend, after having a mental debate yet again in the home decor aisles of Target, I sighed in disgust and swung my cart around to head to the check out. And what did I nearly run into with said cart? Hooks. Blue, plastic, easily removed hooks.

The four-pack, with enough sticky tape to use them twice, cost less than $4. I slapped three of them on the wall in a straight line -- we got out the level and everything, though I didn't bother to measure between them -- and they're perfect. I like how they look, and they do exactly what I wanted them to do. The Boy can use them easily and thinks it's cool that they're at his level, so we have had fewer fights over putting things away.

The fourth one is in The Lad's room, holding his floppy sunhat, which no longer gets lost in the back of the drawer. Little things can make such a big difference.

Chatty McChatterson

I went into Peanut's room after I heard her jabbering yesterday morning. I usually let her talk to herself for a few minutes because I have found going in there too soon causes problems. She likes to wake up slowly but once she's awake, she's Awake.

This is about how our first 10 minutes went:

Peanut: Hi, momma.

Me: Hi, baby. Did you sleep well? Let's change your diaper.

Peanut: No diapa change. Noooooo. No diapa change. Eat orange.

Me: OK. You can have an orange. First diaper change, then orange.

Peanut. Diapa change. Eat orange. Watch Mickey.

Me wrangling her as she goes into an alligator death roll trying to avoid a diaper change: OK, you can watch Mickey while you eat your orange. But first diaper change.

We walk down the hall to the stairs.

Me: Do you want me to carry you?

Peanut: Nooooooo carry you. Hold hand. Hold hand.

I hold her hand as she smiles and makes her way down the stairs. I put her on the counter so she look out the back window.

Peanut: Eat orange. Watch Mickey. Orange. Momma! Birds! Birds! Birds fly, momma. Momma? Momma! Birds fly. Quirrels! Go, quirrels, go. Birds! Birds fly. Count birds, momma, count. One, two, free ... Momma. Birds!

Me: Yes, darling, I see the birds. And yes they do fly.

Peanut: Cewul momma? Cewul? Milk. Milk. Cewul, momma.

Me: OK. You can have cereal with milk.

Peanut giggling and turns back to the window: Oh hi, Gabbles! Momma, Gabbles! Birds fly! Fly! Birds. Quirrels, momma.

Me, letting the cat, Gabbles, in: Momma's going to need to make more coffee this morning.

He's just messing with me, isn't he?

Night feedings with The Lad have been peaceful and generally not so bad.

But I'm over them.

If he were still getting up twice every night, I think I could deal with that. I would complain, because that is my right as a sleep-deprived parent, but I could deal. There would be a rhythm to the wakings. As it is though, The Lad follows no rhythm. Every night is a crapshoot. We might get six straight hours or we might get three. I might wake up after eight or more hours with swollen, leaky boobs, or I might answer the call of feed-me! squawks twice in the night.

I have thought about letting him cry. By the time The Boy was this age -- nearly four months old -- we were letting him self-soothe back to sleep in the middle of the night. But, here again, The Boy was formula-fed, so when he woke up at 1 a.m., I could say, "That child just scarfed down nine ounces of formula and cereal. He cannot be hungry," and let him cry for the few minutes it took him to fall back asleep with minimal guilt. The Lad is not formula-fed, so even though I know he has nursed twice between coming home and bedtime -- and chomped on a bowl of cereal -- there's a part of me that thinks, "Well, maybe he didn't get enough. I better go feed him." Plus, I'd like to keep nursing, so I figure the night-time feedings keep my supply up. Still, there's the whole waking thing, of which, as I say, I am growing tired. A couple weeks ago, The Lad seemed to be nursing mostly for comfort in the night, so I cut down on the time we were nursing and planned to let him cry the next week. Of course, the next week, he was back to being ravenous every time he woke.

So, to sum up: I have a child who is nearly 4 months old and who cannot decide whether he wants to sleep through the night or not and it is making me crazy. Thoughts?

(Oh, and the first person to mention the 4-month sleep regression or developmental milestones or teething wins a punch in the nose. I AM AWARE. And really, I don't care WHY he's waking up. I just want him to get on a schedule, preferably one that involves five to eight straight hours of sleep.)

Perfect way to spend a day

The husband decided to break out the golf clubs Sunday so Peanut and I decided to go to the zoo with my parents. The zoo has been a mixed bag for us in the past. She was a little young this time and she was teething this time so I wasn't sure how this would go.

It was the kind of day that I want to wrap in a box so I can pull it out and savor the joy of it forever. The laughs and smiles were priceless. Her excitement over the "el-phants." Her belly laughs at the gorillas. Her look of awe in the aquarium. I don't think it could have been any better.

Every time a fish went by, she would open and close her mouth and yell at "Feeesssshhh!"

She decided she would try to entertain everyone and show off her tongue.

Sitting with the flowers. I couldn't believe I could get her to sit still long enough to get this.

The tiger is sleeping ... shhhhh.

Penguins. Waddle, waddle.

The gorillas were her favorite. We had to carry her away from them.

This was after she was traumatized by the carousel. She hated it and insisted on being rocked in the rocking chairs after.

And asleep less than a mile away from the zoo.

It was a magical day. The kind of day that brings tears to your eyes from joy. The kind of day that makes you want 12 children. The kind of day that makes you believe in blessings and makes you thankful for all that you have.

Money update

That little ball tucked up under The Boy's arm? That's what he spent his Easter money on, and it was purchased without any fits or fighting.

The Boy really wanted batting gloves, which we knew were going to cost more than the $5 he had. I suppose we could have told him to save his money for the gloves, but he's been putting SOCKS on his hands for the last two weeks and calling them batting gloves. Of course, the socks then prevented him from picking up either a bat or a ball. It was pathetic. So, we decided to buy him a pair, and inadvertently made the shopping expedition to spend his Easter money very easy on everyone.

We had to go to a sporting goods store to get gloves small enough for The Boy -- and they're still too big, but whatever, he's happy. There's only so much a toddler carrying $5 can buy at a sporting goods store. He wanted a baseball and that's about all he could afford. No choices means no fits.

I asked him several times before we got to the check out if he would prefer to go to a different store to get Legos or crayons or Play-Doh, but no: I wanna ball, Momma. The Boy handed the cashier his money, and left with a brand-new baseball, $1.72 in change and a new understanding that money is not a play-toy. He willingly stashed the change in his beer can when we got home to save it up for his next shopping trip. He's still 2 -- as I typed this, he just came over and grabbed my wallet saying, "I need money," which led to a conversation about earning money, not stealing it -- but it's a start.

Looking for stain fighting tips

In the list of things to be annoyed/get upset about in the world, this is No. 5,149, but it still annoys me.

I hate when Peanut's clothes get stained. Hate. It.

Which means I'm annoyed every time I do her laundry.

She's a kid. I get it. She gets food on her. She gets dirt on her. I'm not blaming her.

I try to get some form of stain remover on her clothes once I notice something. But if I changed her every time she got something on an outfit, I would need to change her clothes three times a day.

Plus some things just don't come out completely. Strawberry stains just seem to turn a faint purplish color. Oranges take at least a few washings.

I've stopped buying anything white and I'm always chasing after her trying to get the stain out before it sets in.

It's not like we buy expensive clothes that I really need to worry about. Most of her summer wardrobe consists of $3 shirts and shorts I picked up at Target. I told myself I wouldn't fret as much if the clothes were cheap. I was wrong.

What are your stain fighting tricks?

On pumping

The Lad eats three five-ounce bottles every day at daycare. I pump almost exactly 15 ounces every day. How does my body do that?

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The daycare ladies report that The Lad is reluctant to take his bottles on Monday, presumably having been spoiled by two days of nothing but nursing. Alternatively, my boobs -- I suppose because they've been given a break from the pump -- almost always produce more on Monday.

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Pumping at work is not as horrible as I imagined. Most days, my biggest complaint is having to lug around the extra baggage. Still, it is not as comfortable as nursing and I am amazed there are women who can solely pump. Sometimes when my milk lets down, I feel like the pump is trying to rip out my soul.

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Partially disrobing at work has stopped seeming weird, which is weird in and of itself.

Also I had one mortifying moment, when I had to pump outside of the safe confines of the radio room, when someone knocked on the door and I thought I was going to get walked in on. The idea of a coworker seeing me topless is unappealing, but bearable. (Oh dear -- excuse the pun) The idea of a coworker seeing my bare boobs hooked up to the milking machine -- OMG. I would die. I know it's natural and I'm a freaking earth goddess, nourishing my child and all that, but still, NO. Breastfeeding is natural, pumping is not.

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Some days the standing appointments with the pump makes me more productive and fits seamlessly into my day. Other days, I'm rushing around and zoning out during interviews to do mental calculations of when I'll have time to do it and wondering if I'll have to pump in the car and praying, as my boobs tingle, that I remembered to put nursing pad in my bra.

So far, I've never had to pump in a parking lot. Thank god.

On the phone

Before children, on the phone with my sister while watching Grey's Anatomy:

Me: I love Patrick Dempsey. I want to marry him. His hair is perfect.

My sister: What is Izzie doing? Why is she acting crazy?

Me: Mmmmm. Patrick Dempsey. Meredith and McDreamy just need to stay together. I'm tired of this back and forth.

My sister: I agree. This story line is getting old.

After children. Just trying to catch up between the billion things that need to be done:

Me: How are you doing?

My sister: We're hanging in there, (No, get off the table. No, we do not stand on the table to make a basket.)

Me: Well that sounds like fun. (No, Peanut do not come in here. Mommy is mopping. You are going to fall. I told you that you would fall. Did you hurt your knee? Let me kiss it.)

My sister: We still need to get together. I have Peanut's Easter basket. (No, we pee in the potty, not on the floor.)

Me: I know. I have Easter baskets for the kids, too. (Peanut, don't yell at the cat. She didn't do anything to you. Just leave her alone.) She really needs a sibling to boss around.

So this is parenthood No. 14

Peanut has a talent for being sassy (in a sweet, adorable way). Sometimes her sassiness crosses over to lippy at which point I usually say "hey" to her in a reproachful manner.

This weekend I noticed if she got too sassy, she would follow it up with "HEEEEEEY" in an attempt to correct herself before I got to it.

I am apparently no longer needed.

Mo money, mo problems?

Grammy and Papaw sent the the boys cards and stickers and cash for Easter. The Lad is oblivious to his money -- if it isn't milk, his brother or his mooing cow, his interest in anything is brief -- but The Boy's $5 is burning a hole in his pocket.

(Actually, it's burning a hole in the Duff beer can the husband received several Christmases ago as a silly stocking stuffer that has since been commandeered by The Boy as a piggy bank. He runs around yelling, "Mine beer! Mine beer!" I suppose this still is preferable to his keeping money on his body for safekeeping.)

We've explained to The Boy what money is, but of course he seems to only about half understand. I'm sure it doesn't help that he has change and the odd dollar bill, but sees the husband and I using little plastic cards when we buy groceries or gas or just about anything else. The problems of modern life. Anyway, we told The Boy we would take him to the store -- "We go to Tar-GET?" -- where he could choose something to buy with his money, both to continue the financial lessons and under strict orders from Grammy to let the kiddo get something fun.

I'm a bit excited about this shopping expedition. I'm curious to see what The Boy picks. So far, in conversations, he's said, "I'm just gonna buy balls. Balls, Momma," and "Maybe we get trucks?" and "Yeah, OK" when I suggested Play-Doh.

But I'm also a little apprehensive. The Boy sometimes loses his shit when faced with a choice between playing cars or Legos at home. What is he going to do when he can only get ONE ball, not six? I do not want to deal with a full-on meltdown in the middle of Target's dollar section.

Any tips for teaching kiddos about money and choices without screaming fits?

In the night

I've always wondered what Peanut dreams about. Does she have colorful dreams of playing outside in fields of flowers? Does her imagination run wild and her dreams are of full of whimsy and magic? Fairies flying around her, leaving her glittering with fairy dust? Elves that show her magical worlds filled with rainbows and cotton candy clouds?

I got my answer this weekend.

Peanut slept with the husband and me as we visited my in-laws for the holiday. She flip-flopped between us occasionally calling out "daddy" and "mommy."

So sweet, right?

Except she also called out "cackers" twice. Apparently she was dreaming of wanting crackers at 2:30 a.m. too.

Things you don't expect

We ended Easter Sunday with a trip to the beach.

"Whoa!" The Boy shouted as we climbed up over the dune. "Where dat ocean come from?! Hey Momma! Dere water behind you!"

I dipped The Lad's toes in the chilly water to commemorate his first ocean view. The Boy dug in the sand and picked up seashells. We all watched pelicans glide over the water.

When we got home, we decided to pop The Boy quickly into the shower with his Daddyman.

"You've even got sand in your diaper," the husband said, undressing The Boy.

"I'd say there's some poo there, too," I said, eying from across the room a dark spot on The Boy's rear.

"There's none in the diaper. Are you -- Oh my gosh! It's a quarter!"

My child had a quarter stuck between his cheeks. FOR HOURS. Before dinner, he had been tossing change -- left in eggs by the Easter Bunny -- in the air. I was busy feeding The Lad. The husband was cooking. Neither of us saw what happened before The Boy began shouting, "Mine money! Where my money go?" We admonished him not to throw it any more and figured it had rolled under the couch or something. Nope. It had lodged in the top of his diaper, though we'll never know how.

I do know that if, someday, The Boy tells his children, my grandchildren, that he cannot pull money out of his ass for whatever new toy they covet, I will look at them and say: "Yes, in fact, he can."

A tale of 4 pregnancy tests

Test No. 1 - Sunday, March 28

I feel nauseous in the morning. I'm not late but I'm showing other possible signs of being pregnant. We aren't trying. We aren't preventing either.

As we prepare for family at our house for my birthday, I run to the store to pick up salad dressings and decide to grab a 3-pack of pregnancy tests.

Later while everyone gathered, I sneak upstairs and take one test. Negative.

I don't tell the husband for hours that it was negative because, well, it was negative. When I finally do tell him, he gets all high-pitched on me and says I should have told him earlier. I tell him to relax. There was nothing to tell.

He then goes all conspiracy theory on me and said he knew there was a reason I went to the grocery store to get salad dressing when I could have just gone to the Kmart closer to our house. I told him I could have bought pregnancy tests there too. His response? "Yeah, but then if you were pregnant you'd have to name the baby Carl."

I don't even know what that means.

Test No. 2 - Wednesday, March 31

I do the math and realize that I am indeed late now so I bust out another pregnancy test while Peanut is playing. I take it.

Is that a faint line? No. Yes. Maybe. Yes, there is definitely a faint line. To check, I dig out the first test and compare. Very faint line confirmed.

My mind begins whirling.

The husband gets home from work and I tell him of the faint line. He demands to see both tests. I show him and he agrees. Faint line. Then he says: "I hope you sanitized these before I held them."

We try not to get too excited. I google "faint line and pregnancy test" a million times. I agree I will wait until morning and take another one.

Test No. 3 - 4 a.m. Thursday, April 1

I take another test when I finally can't sleep anymore out of anticipation. Definitely negative this time.

Later I talk to my sister who says she never got a positive home result with my nephew. Hillary sends me similar message about pregnancy tests with The Lad.

I'm still trying not to get too excited.

I stop at Target to pick up a few things and grab another 3-pack of pregnancy tests. I also realize they are $4 cheaper at Target than at the grocery store.

Test No. 4 - Friday, April 2

I take the fourth and final test. Negative again but now I'm almost a week late. I'm convinced I'm pregnant and decide that if nothing happens by Monday, I'll call the doctor for an appointment.

Alas, my answer came Friday afternoon and I am decidedly not pregnant.

It was hard not to get excited. I imagined a little boy named Elijah or even Huck joining our family. I imagined what our holidays would be like with the new addition. I thought of Peanut being a big sister.

It was a little disappointing but I know that it will all come when it is supposed to.

Until then, I have two pregnancy tests to take.

Said

Momma to The Boy: I like you so much I play sports with you. That's a lot.

Boy to Daddyman, who had ticked him off: NO! You not make me pancake. Momma do it.

Momma to the Daddyman: I'm sorry. I didn't hear any of that. SOMEONE (glaring at The Boy) is throwing a tantrum over his socks. ... No, I don't know. He's just throwing a fit over them.

Momma to The Lad: That hand is not going to feed you.

Boy to Momma: (picks up food with fingers) You didn't see that.

Boy to Momma at 8:15 a.m.: I want candy. I just think I want some.

Potty humor

I didn't expect to be a mother of boys. For a long time, I didn't expect to be a mother, and when I decided I wanted babies, my imaginings of motherhood usually included a tidy little girl with dark hair. I grew up in a very estrogen-heavy household. I have only sisters. My father, as a truck driver and then a construction worker, was gone often. I am not a sports fan or an athlete, a video game player or an outdoors aficionado. Boys sort of scared me. I was worried about pee fountains.

Then I had The Boy. He was perfect, and his brother is perfect, and I am just their momma.

But there are moments when I am reminded I am, beyond a doubt, the mother of boys. Tonight was one of those moments. We were all sitting around the kitchen table talking about POO!

"You poo!"

"You poo!"

"You poo!"

"Lad poos!"

"Boy poos!"

"Daddy poos!"

"Momma poos!"

I wish I could tell you how we even got the subject. I can't. We weren't really talking about bodily functions. We were just shouting the word POO! because, for whatever reason, that always makes my boys laugh. All three of them.