Opening day

Baseball starts today. This is Christmas for the husband, who always takes the day off from work. He's looking forward to one day letting the boys stay home with him, or even take a road trip up to Cincinnati to see the Reds in person, but this Opening Day he's just enjoying a day to himself. The Boy was less than pleased about this. He wanted to know why he couldn't stay. Furthermore, he saw no reason why we shouldn't all get in the car this morning and drive to see the game. Preschoolers just don't get geography.

Off topic: Books

Can you believe a quarter of the year already is gone?

I have a couple posts percolating -- my thoughts on the whole Cinderella thing and an update on The Boy's teeth. I'm sure you're all waiting with bated breath for those, but it's late and the boys were crazy and I drove two hours in crappy traffic for work. I'd much rather talk about books and, conveniently, it's about time for my quarterly book list.

The husband and I have a friendly competition going this year. He wants to see if he can run 20 miles for every book I read. So far, I'm smoking him. I've read 25 books to his 445 miles. (We are dorks. I know.)

Anyway, the highlights of my reading list:

• Shake the Devil Off, Ethan Brown -- Nonfiction about a gruesome murder in post-Katrina New Orleans, this book is not for everyone. But, the journalist who wrote it does a fine job of telling the tale and pointing out ways our country might be failing veterans. It's a really thought-provoking book.

• The Imperfectionists, Tom Rachman -- Michelle hated this; I liked it. It's about a newspaper, and even Michelle had to admit that bits were spot-on descriptions of a newsroom and the weird people those places often collect. I'm really curious to hear what a nonjournalist thinks, so if you're not a reporter and read this, tell me what you think!

• Up from the Blue, Susan Henderson -- This book duped me. I put it on the highlights list because it's certainly a page-turner, but the end -- well, let's just say I'm still bitter.

• Truth and Beauty, Ann Patchett -- This is a memoir about Patchett's friendship with Lucy Grealy, a fantastically gifted, troubled writer who was left with half a face by childhood cancer. It is as tragic and beautiful as it sounds.

• Stiltsville, Susanna Daniel -- My favorite of the quarter. Daniel is from Florida and her debut novel is about a real marriage in Miami. The city is a character. The writing is lovely, but I wonder if someone not in or from Florida would appreciate it as much. Again, if you read it, let me know.

• Great House, Nicole Krauss -- This is OK, but her first book, A History of Love, was better. This one tracks a collection of people who all have a connection to a desk. If that sounds interesting, read The People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks. It's better.

• Swamplandia!, Karen Russell -- Another Florida novel. I was kind of on a Florida kick after Stiltsville; it was that good. This one is weird and dense as the swamps it's named for. Russell alternates perspectives, which didn't work for me, but the central quest of Ava Bigtree to save her family kept me reading.

• Matterhorn, Karl Marlantes -- The author is a Vietnam vet and this is a novel about Vietnam. I have no interest in war books and rarely read about the Far East. But I really liked this book, though I'll admit to glossing over a little when they started talking about war tactics. The characterization and the drama of these kids in battle kept me reading.

• Maus I & II, Art Spiegelman -- I poo-poohed these graphic novels for years, but seriously: you must read these. Spiegelman's father is a Holocaust survivor and he tells his father's story, making the Jews mice and the Nazis cats. Somehow the cartoons make the story both easier to take and more touching.

• Pilgrims, Elizabeth Gilbert -- Short stories. I say, "Eh," to the form, but I love her writing. Forget Eat Pray Love, though I liked that, too. You should read The Last American Man. Brilliant. This is in that vein.

I read two of Joshilyn Jackson's books on the recommendation of Michelle and my mom. Eh. They were good, but I don't think I'll put myself on the library waiting list to get another. Other things I was expecting too much of after hearing them talked up: Ape House by Sara Gruen (Water for Elephants was light years better), The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb (huge, winding but mostly redeemed by the ending) and Sarah's Key by Tatiana de Rosnay (if you want to read about the Holocaust: Maus).

Almost all of the good books were in January or early February. I've had a run of meh lately. So, what should be on my list?

3 months, and a day

Gizmo turned three months old on Monday. I swear to you, I washed her hair the night before and had it combed down. When it dried, it looked like this. There is nothing that can be done. It is what it is, which is part of her charm.

Are you getting my good side, woman?

For reference sake, this is what Peanut looked like at 3 months old.

(Doesn't Gizmo look so much older? And bigger? It's her hair. It's all about her hair.)

Anyway, about Gizmo. I am kind of afraid to put this out there but I have one of those babies.

You know the kind you hear about from other people and you think, "Pfft. They are totally lying. No baby does that."

But my baby does. She does do that.

OK. I'm going to say it.

She falls asleep on her own. Not all of the time but she does do it.

Now maybe some of you have a baby who does that but this is my first baby who does.

Peanut had to be rocked and held and fed and rocked some more before she would go to sleep. For the first six months of her life we held her while she napped (this is what happens with the first).

The doctor encouraged us to put her down while she was sleepy but not asleep. All the parenting books said it was possible. I thought they were full of it. No kid actually goes to sleep on their own.

But not with Gizmo. In fact, sometimes she would prefer to just be in her swing or hanging out in her crib prior to snoozing. I don't even know what to do with myself. The other day I tried to put her down for a nap by rocking her. She wasn't having it. So I turned on her fan, turned on her puppy that plays music, put her in the crib and sat myself in the rocker. She fell asleep. On. Her. Own.

Of course I couldn't resist the urge to snuggle a sleeping baby so I scooped her up and let her sleep on my chest. I didn't have any other plans but reading so I figured I could hold her and read at the same time.

Other than that, she continues to be a pleasant baby. Sleeping well, eating well. She wakes up smiling. Nothing is better than that.

I told the husband to be prepared. In three months time, she could be mobile. He didn't believe me. We shall see.

Racing Boy

The Boy ran his first half K race this past weekend. That's just a little more than a third of a mile. He's run a couple other kids' races before when they've been after the 5Ks my husband ran, but those were just a 100 yards or so. And this also was the first race that was just his. The husband didn't run in the 5K; they went specifically for The Boy to run. (The Lad and I had to go to swimming lessons.)

The race was for 3- to 7-year-olds, putting The Boy at the low end in a field of about 15 kids. He finished in 3:37 -- that's a little more than a 10-minute mile pace. He was fifth or sixth, the husband said, and no one his age beat him.

I'm not sure I can run a 10-minute mile. To say I'm not athletic is an understatement. But I'm so proud of The Boy and so glad he enjoys sports as much as his daddy. (Plus, the runners I know are good people, and running was a sport in high school that seemed to attract good, geeky kids.)

Michelle asked if we were trying to create the Tiger Woods of running, teasing. We're not. We're just around a lot of races. The husband through the cooler season runs a couple races each month and runs multiple times each week, taking the boys in the jogging stroller when he can. The Boy wants to be like his daddy and will copy his stretches and ask to wear the iPod. Wanting to race was the next logical step. We've been very careful about leaving it up to him. With this last race, we asked if he wanted to do it instead of swim class, just one Saturday. He hemmed and hawed and wanted to swim. OK, we said. No! no no no no! I want to race. Back and forth, The Boy wavered.

On race day though, he was sure. He picked out his running clothes carefully. ("How 'bout the Reds shirt, Momma? 'Cause you run fast in baseball!") The husband said he was all business before the race, making sure to stretch and refusing to play on the bounce houses. It was the longest distance he's ever run, and the husband, who ran next to him, asked several times if The Boy wanted to stop. His only answer was The Boy's heavy breathing as he ran harder. Every time someone cheered from the side of the race course, The Boy sprinted faster.

If you guys could have seen his face when he came home .... he was so proud of himself.

And, though he definitely is his father's child, there's a little bit of me in there, too: Telling me about the race that night at bedtime, whispering in the dark, all The Boy wanted to talk about was how he didn't beat the big boy from his school and he'd have to be faster next time.

Proud

My dear sweet Peanut,

I so rarely write to you here. Mostly I write about you. About your funny sayings and loving personality (and sometimes you tantrums).

But, someday, should you stumble across this blog, I want you to know that I am proud of you in case you don't remember me telling you.

Your little sister has been with us for three months. She has commanded much of our attention. But you have been (mostly) patient with all of the changes. Sure, you sometimes steal her nightlight, which used to be yours and you have a new one, and you first had problems sharing your stuffed duck with her. But really, that's the worst of it.

You have been loving, attentive and protective of this new little addition. You sing to her. You tell her stories. If she cries during your story, you ask her what kind of story she would like to hear. If she is crying in another part of the house, you run to her, calling the entire time, "It's OK baby! I'm coming!"

You insist that we all acknowledge her presence. "Talk to her, momma! Say hi! Do patty-cake!"

You really don't like the little boy at the babysitter's who touches your sister's things or your sister. I've even seen you shield her and her things from his prying hands.

I don't think anyone could ask for a better big sister.

Apart from your sister, you are an amazing being. I would love to get inside of your mind to see the world from your point of view.

In your world, princesses reign supreme and mashed potatoes are worthy of thanking God during bedtime prayer. In your world, fairies are real and Santa Claus always comes through with the best presents. In your world, it is a noteworthy fact that poop doesn't have a face.

I love your sweet voice in the morning as you come padding out of your room into ours and stand by the bed, saying "Momma?" your voice lilting upward on the second syllable. I love how you bring all (5) of your pacifiers with you and crawl into bed with me, folding your body so it molds against mine.

I love how you freely give kisses and hugs. How you tell me to have a good day when I leave for work. How sometimes you crawl into my lap, asking to be held like a baby. How you tell me that you want me to be happy and that I am beautiful.

I love how you dance with abandon when Taylor Swift comes on and insist that the rest of us do and how you ask me to sing with you in the car.

You are my sunshine, little Peanut, and my life is better with you in it.

Love,

Momma

Growing old

My brother-in-law, who is a sophmore in college, his girlfriend and a cousin came to watch the girls one day this week. They asked me how I came up with the name Gizmo.

I explained because she makes funny little noises and has hair that sticks up that she reminded me of the Gremlins ... you know, the movie.

All three of them kind of looked at me for a beat and the girlfriend said, "Oh yeah, my dad really likes that movie."

Apparently I am more her father's age category than hers.

****

We were talking about Baby Jessica turning 25 this week while at work. One co-worker wasn't really joining the conversation. Realizing he is a bit younger than the rest of us, I asked him if he even knew who Baby Jessica was.

He looked thoughtful and said, "I think I've heard of her before."

I then asked him how old he was.

24.

Sigh.

****

While pumping at work yesterday, I was listening to Pandora on my phone. O.A.R. came on with "Crazy Game of Poker" a very popular party song while I was in college.

It made me realize how much my life has changed in 10 years. Ten years ago I probably would have been singing at the top of my lungs with a beer in my hand while listening to that song. Today, I was hooked up to a pump making milk for the baby.

****

I am 31 today and while I won't be singing at the top of my lungs, drunk at some party, I will have fun with the family and maybe have a glass of wine at a wedding later tonight.

It was fun to be 21 but 31 seems even better.

Damn gummies

The Boy has cavities*.

That's right: Plural. Cavities in three of his molars and a fourth one starting, according to the dentist.

We brush, though I'll admit to forgetting sometimes and letting him do it by himself too often. And I have not attempted flossing. Still, I've brushed his teeth since before he had any. In other words, dental hygiene for the kiddos in our house is less than ideal, but I think about normal, judging from the few conversations I've had with other moms about the subject.

The dentist said his teeth are in good shape otherwise. We have fluoridated water, he doesn't suck down juice like it's his job, and the rest of his diet looks good.

"But do you give him gummies?"

"No," I said, "but the school does." Daycare uses gummies -- Welch's brand, I've noticed, which purports to be all juice -- as treats.

"Yeah, gummies are not good. It's probably the gummies. They get stuck back there. I hear from so many parents that schools give out gummies or candies," the dentist said, shaking her head.

So, consider this a public service announcement. Brush your kids' teeth. Floss. No juice between meals and avoid the damn gummies.

What are your dental hygiene habits with your kids?

*(I'll let you know how the fillings go.)

Random bits

The Boy is starting a preschool baseball/teeball program soon. How did he get this old?

---

The Lad still is biting. I got brave the weekend and stuck my finger in his mouth. All four molars are coming in. Two are through the surface. Fingers crossed the others come in quickly and stop the violence.

---

I have yet another sore throat. And my house is gross. I've determined I'm not going to be healthy or have a tidy house for another 17 years, minimum.

---

For work recently, I got to read a Dr. Seuss book to a preschool class, wearing a Cat in the Hat hat. (The kids told me I looked like a witch and gave me their ages down to the second decimal place.) The class sent me a thank you card signed by each one of them. The "signatures" sprawled unsteadily over the paper with backwards A's and five-letter names crayoned the width of the paper -- very cute. Looking at it, it struck me how soon The Boy will be a kid in a class like that. Made it even cuter.

---

There are many things in my house I'm sick of, but I never ever get tired of the apple green walls in our living room and our sheer white curtains. I especially love them when, like now, they're blowing in the breeze and light is streaming in.

What randomness is going on in your world?

Girly-girl

I have wanted to write this post for awhile but I am finally getting around to it thanks to Clueless But Hopeful Mama's post (Do you read her? You really must. She is wonderful. Thoughtful. Insightful. Funny.)

I have a confession to make.

My daughter is a girly-girl. She likes Barbies. She loves tutus. Princesses are her favorite topic to talk about. She even loves Ariel, the dimwit who gave up her voice for a man and then left her family to be with that man (although she's never actually seen The Little Mermaid).

When I first found out we were having a girl, I panicked a bit. A girl is a big responsibility for a mom. I felt I had to be the best role model ever. She must be Strong. Independent. Never let a man control her. All princess shit must be banished. BANISHED. (Insert picture of me flexing my muscles with a bandanna on my head.)

And then I had a girl. I decided to let her choose her path. If she wanted pink and sparkly, she could have it. If she wanted trucks and tools, she could have it too. I did try to steer her away from Disney princesses and pushed Tinkerbell more. She's at least feisty and independent. She's not waiting for a man to save her or giving up her voice for a man she's never met (I'm looking at you, Ariel.)

That worked for awhile. And then someone gave her a sleeping bag with the Disney princesses. It was like a gateway drug. Before I knew it, we had princesses coming out of our ears.

So here we are. She loves everything I hoped she wouldn't. I ranted against Disney princesses in college. Those insipid twits just sat around waiting to be saved. How stupid. And how stupid was I to watch them as a child and believe in happily ever after. Pfft.

I know it could be a phase. I also know it could shape how she thinks of herself. But how much?

I keep looking at the book Cinderella Ate My Daughter and thinking I should read it. Part of me wants to but I think it will make me mad (and perhaps feel a little guilty.) I'm not sure dressing my daughter in pink now will lead her to become an oversexualized teen. (I know I am simplifying the concept.) But since CBH Mama says it is a must, I think I will.

So how do I let my daughter (who by the way loves to dig for worms, play in the dirt, act like she's fixing her Tinkerbell tricycle with tools, etc.) be who she wants to be without possibly damaging her future self esteem?

Who knows. It's not something I can answer in a blog post or maybe even in this lifetime. For now, we are careful about what books she reads and try to find ones where the girl is a strong figure. I avoid dolls that look like they belong on a street corner. We try offering alternatives to the princess shows just so she knows there is something else out there. She loves Super Why! on PBS and Curious George. (I do love PBS and the Disney channel because of the lack of commercials for every plastic toy under the sun - yes, I know Disney is basically one big commercial but I don't hear "I want that!" all of the time.) We keep things age appropriate - music, television, games, clothes, etc.

The scary thing is, now won't be the hardest part of dealing with this. I shudder (and the husband swallows his tongue) when thinking about our little angels as teens.

It's not perfect but I hope that I am a good, strong role model for her, not to mention the other women in her life. Together, we can teach her that a girl doesn't have to wait for her prince to come to live happily ever after but she can dress like a princess while digging for worms.

A little cuteness for your day

Cheesing. She loves for us to take her picture and then show it to her.

Rocking her Cat in the Hat hat and Strawberry Shortcake pjs. It just about blew her mind that she was wearing a Cat in the Hat hat while watching Cat in the Hat.

Gizmo loves, loves, loves just hanging out on the floor. Many times she would rather do this than be held.

Does this really need any words?

Dream-maker

Do you remember Magic Viewfinders?

I was sometimes anxious at bedtime as a kid. I worried a tornado would whip our house into smithereens or a fire would burn us all into ashes in the night. I would fret until my belly was in knots. My mom, whose sympathy only lasted so long, would tell me, "Hillary, I lived. Your dad lived. We made it through childhood without those things happening. Most people do," and that helped a little. But then I would worry about having a bad dream -- not actually have a bad dream, mind you, though this worked when that happened, too -- and I would lie in the dark afraid to close my eyes and see monsters.

I don't remember if my mom taught me this or whether I dreamed it up on my own. But here's how I always managed to fall asleep: I would imagine my brain was a Viewfinder and in my mind were thousands of tiny discs full of pictures. I would sort through the discs until I found the one I wanted -- an afternoon with my grandma, a chapter of the Little House books where I was Laura, a castle with great, ivy-covered towers. I would put it in my ear, often literally placing my hand over my ear to do this, and then, I would dream that dream. I say pretend, but really, I more than half-believed this.

Tonight, The Boy was whiny, so he went to bed on the early side of bedtime. He fussed about it, but we were proved right when he fell asleep within minutes. About 10 minutes later, he woke up sobbing for me. He had dreamed a bad dream.

"What do you want to dream about?" I said, laying in the dark next to him. He didn't know.

"Well, how about baseball. You're going to play ball with T-Rexes. You're on their team."

He giggled. I put my mouth right up to his ear and clapped my hand over his other ear.

"You're going to dream this because I'm whispering it right inside your head now, and I'm keeping my hand over here so it doesn't fly out. You want to be the pitcher?"

"Yeah."

"Well, you're going to be the pitcher and T-Rex is going to be the catcher and the other team is never going to have a chance. You guys are going to win! Because T-Rex is on your team. It'll be the greatest game ever! Ready, set, go ... good night, kiddo."

He's still asleep. No bad dreams yet.

---

I was always annoyed in the morning because the dreams I remembered were never the ones I ordered. I wonder if The Boy will have a story about baseball or dinosaurs tomorrow morning.

Things I wanted to tell you last night ...

... but couldn't because it's March Madness and the husband was hogging the computer. (In his defense, he offered to cough it up for a bit, but I declined so I could finish my book.)

Anyway.

Thing #1: Daylight savings time is not that bad this year. When I was in college, I hated DST because all that spring forward crap meant the bars closed an hour early one night and I had one less hour to sleep it off before getting to my 8 a.m. class. Then, I loved the "fall back" part of the time change. Extra hour of sleep! Whoo hoo! This year, that's what DST means in our house. The boys, thank the lord!, are not fighting going to bed at the regular time, but they are sleeping in an hour later than usual. It's a miracle.

Thing #2: The drawback with this DST miracle is that we're all sleeping in until 7 a.m. or so, and that means we're rushing around to get ready and out the door on time. Any tips for hurrying along dawdling children -- or mommas for that matter? (What? I need my coffee reading time. I don't care how in a hurry we are.)

Thing #3: The Beast is biting again. Coincidentally, his gums also are swollen, his nose is snotty and every so often his poo turns his bottom red. Think we're teething? If he bites today, he is being sent home. The husband says this is not entirely a bad thing and volunteered to take him home; March Madness is on.

The things they say

The older Peanut gets, the funnier she gets, especially with how she interprets the world around her. A few of the best lately:

The other night she turned to her father and said "Kiss me like Beauty and the Beast."

She then grabbed his face and planted an excessively long kiss on him.

He looked at my sheepishly and then told her she better not kiss anyone but daddy like that.

I said she probably shouldn't be kissing daddy like that either.

****

Peanut got up this morning and told me that my birthday is Thursday (it's not). She has decided to get me some candles, maybe some princesses and Elmo.

****

She likes to reminisce about trips to the zoo. She still regularly talks about a Labor Day trip to the Indianapolis Zoo where we saw dolphins.

This morning she asked me if I remembered the rhinoceros. I told her I did. She then said there was something else on a tree and asked me what kind of animal it was. I didn't know what she was talking about so I went for something logical.

"Was it a squirrel?" I asked.

"No. It was an octopus or something," she said.

****

One night, while waiting for her father to come home, Peanut stood in front of the window saying "Ladies and gentlemen. May I present to you .... Princess Peanut!!!" Her arms just waved back and forth as she did.

****

And a bonus from my 4-year-old nephew. Upon seeing his baby cousin, Gizmo, he said, "She's got cheeks like Alvin, Simon and Theodore."

That she does.

Yeah.

"Go down and we'll let The Beast fly," the husband said.

We had walked to the retention pond in our neighborhood, or the sea, if you're The Boy and a little confused about geography. The access road to it is on a slight incline, which might as well be a small mountain around here. The Boy, when he was little and still a stroller-rider, loved flying down that hill -- one of us would let him go at the top and the other would catch him at the bottom. Now, The Lad is in the stroller, but he is a Beast, so we figured he would like it, too.

As I walked down, the husband said to The Boy, "Want to race Beastie?"

The Boy did. I turned around to see The Boy careening down the hill as the husband released the stroller. The Boy was winning and, grinning wildly, veered to me -- right across the path of the stroller.

"Don't! You'll get run over if you fall!"

He stumbled, as the words came out of my mouth, having inherited my natural grace and agility. The husband yelled, I lunged and The Beast barreled over The Boy.

He was fine -- except for the tire tread mark on his forehead and a scraped elbow. As awful as this is, the husband and I both were laughing as we disentangled The Boy from the stroller wheels. He was scared and crying, but really OK, and soon he was laughing, too.

"It's like I was the stop sign," he told us as we walked home. "You gotta stop, Beastie."

---

I started typing this just before he went to bed.

"Whatcha doing, Momma?"

"Writing about you getting run over."

"Yeah," he drawled, obviously impressed with himself. "I got runned over."

Tired perspective

I am tired and you are not shocked.

We are going into my third week back at work AND we lost an hour this weekend. We've had family visits, baby showers and wedding showers in the past few weekends. This week, the husband is going on his annual mancation to Vegas (thank God for my mother in law who is coming to help me while he is gone). We have two weddings come up too.

We are busy and rushed. We are tired ... probably like many of you.

I have a tendency to get cranky and uptight when our lives get this way. But I am really, really trying to keep things in perspective.

I am tired because I have a beautiful, healthy, faux hawked baby who wakes up laughing and cooing in the night to eat. A baby who turns heads and makes people smile wherever we go because she is so cute. A baby who lights up every time someone talks to her. A baby who is content in her swing so I can shower.

I am tired because I have a intelligent toddler who is growing before my eyes. A toddler who tells me I am beautiful when I get ready for work. A toddler who climbs into my bed in the morning and says "Momma, I want you to be happy." I toddler who would love nothing more than to hang out with her dad, her mom and her baby sister.

I am tired because I have an amazing husband who wants to spend time with me. A husband who is willing to curl up in bed and watch a chick flick at 10 p.m. Sunday. A husband who loves me even when I am twitchy and twirly and who encouraged me to go on my own vacation with Hillary later this year.

I am tired because I have a job that I love, that challenges me and keeps me on my toes. Because we have friends that we will be celebrating with soon and family who wants to spend as much time with us and the girls as possible.

It isn't always easy balancing everything. The house isn't spotless. I have to go to the grocery store at 9:30 p.m. sometimes. The laundry never ends.

But. I am happy. I am loved. I am keeping things in perspective.

3 and 1

Whenever I tell people my kids are 3 and 1, I get the big eyes.

"OH!" they say. "You have your hands full."

They're right. I do. We have two noses to wipe and two butts, too, despite The Boy using the toilet. We have a 3-year-old talking, talking, talking and asking why, why, why?! while the The Lad toddles around demanding to be read to and figuring out what happens when you run on less than steady legs. We have work and dinners to be made and groceries to buy and chubby little limbs to be washed. We are busy.

But honestly, it's not that bad. The boys play together. If there's anything cuter than two brothers running around the house, playing peekaboo and having a contest to see whose RAWR! is scarier, I don't know what it is. I'm not sure I'd want to see it. My heart might clench up and die from the preciousness. Right now, they're playing cars in The Boy's room. They've been in there with little to no supervision for 30 minutes. The Lad just came out so I could wipe his nose, then strolled back to his brother.

The Lad worships The Boy. The Boy thinks The Lad is hilarious. The Lad performs at dinner to make The Boy laugh. I'm not saying this is the best baby-spacing, but I'm saying I'm glad my kids are close in age. I'm glad neither will remember life without the other.

My sister's boys are 15 months apart. She gets even bigger eyes than me when she tells people her kids' ages. And it's true, my nephews can be a handful. But they also are buddies, best friends. Sometimes, that means partners in crime; it also means they look out for each other.

The husband left early this morning, so it was just me and the boys when I needed to take my shower. I told The Boy what I was doing and to come and tell me if The Lad did anything that might hurt himself or anyone else.

"Yep," The Boy said before I even finished explaining. "I'll watch out for Lad. I'll watch him."

And he did.

Breastfeeding and pumping tips

***Public service announcement. I will be talking a lot about my breasts. Feel free to skip if the word breasts or talk of my breasts makes you uncomfortable. Also note, I am not a medical professional nor am I affiliated with La Leche League. These are just my personal experiences. Yours may vary. Also, just because I am breastfeeding does not mean I am judging you for using formula. This is just what works for us.***

Danielle asked for tips on breastfeeding and pumping full time on my last post about pumping at work. She wanted to know how I found time to pump while breastfeeding. Really, I didn't have a choice or else I would have clogged ducts. I have a freakish supply of milk. I am one step away from being a cow. I had to pump while on maternity leave just so I could be comfortable, especially in the beginning before I got my supply under control.

Many times I would pump just before feeding Gizmo so she would have a more manageable flow. If she ate but not that much, I would pump after so that my breasts were drained. I found if I did one good pump a day, it helped Gizmo eat better, allow me to be more comfortable and build up a supply for when I went back to work. Once we got into a routine, I did this before I went to bed because Gizmo usually sleeps five or six hours before waking for her first feeding at night.

It is just something that had to be done, even if the baby was crying and Peanut wanted to play Candyland. Even if dinner needed to be made and laundry folded. I had to pump. I don't know if I will be able to keep my supply for the year that I plan to nurse so while I have it, I'm going to store it up so Gizmo gets all the breast milk that she can.

Now that I am back to work, I try to pump at least twice at work and then once when I get home if Gizmo has already gone to bed. Right now, I am still pumping a surplus most days. She takes three bottles while I am at work and I am able to replace them and add another. It won't always be like that, hence the supply in the freezer.

The pediatrician at the hospital warned me about pumping too much. He said women who pump usually find themselves with buckets of milk that they don't know what to do with. I call shenanigans.

Very few women that I know would ever say they had TOO much breastmilk. I have a very, very good supply. I did with both girls, storing up more than 600 ounces during my maternity leave. And somehow, with all the buckets of milk I produced and saved, I still used every single ounce by the time Peanut was a year old. Nothing was wasted and I knew exactly what to do with every bit of it.

If you want to try to increase your supply, pump after feeding the baby. It sends a signal to your body that you need more milk. Fenugreek is another trick to try to increase your supply. I used this during certain times when my supply seemed low with Peanut and it helped some. I also drink lots and lots of water. Lots. I think I use the bathroom more now than when I was pregnant. I found kellymom.com helpful when I ran into issues.

What are your tips for pumping and breastfeeding?

The Destroyer and The Sneak

The Lad spilled something in the car the other day and the husband lamented. Why, oh why!? Why did you have to spill!?

"It's what he is," The Boy said.

"What?"

"He's a destroyer and a spiller. It's what he is."

We couldn't really argue, as much as we love our little Beastie.

---

The Boy has been a poky little puppy at meals for the last, oh I don't know, forever. We look up, everyone else done and The Lad trying to catapult out of his highchair and The Boy has eaten exactly one nibble of his burger and three kernels of corn. So, I said no snacks after school tomorrow.

Drama. I said, either get it together or go to bed. He got it together.

He was eating; I was cleaning. He would try to talk; I ignored. The Lad started fussing, so I had to leave to deal with that. The Daddyman took my spot. Next thing I know, The Boy is coming into The Lad's room announcing, "I ate three quarters -- 1, 2, 3, 4 -- of my burger. I TOLD HER DADDY!"

Apparently, The Boy looked at the husband while I was out of sight and earshot and said, "I'm just going to throw this away. Momma will never know."

Tearjerker

So, you've been warned about the nature of this post.

I don't normally post things I write for my real job. Usually, those things have nothing to do with the topics around here. But I write a weekly column about life in our area, and this week, I wrote about an amazing, resilient boy.

Luke is 12. He wants to be a baseball player and he doesn't have a back-up plan yet. He loves the Miami Dolphins and the University of Florida Gators. He and his dad are buds -- not friends, exactly, but partners. Luke's mom died two years ago.

Luke wrote an essay about his mom, and that's why I wrote about him. (You'll find both pieces on that link.)

Notes on breastfeeding

Everything continues to go well on the breastfeeding front. I was able to pump such a surplus during maternity leave that the husband is almost convinced that we need a second fridge just for the freezer space. He, however, is not convinced that we will us all of the stored milk. I keep telling him I used it all during the year that I nursed Peanut so it should not go to waste with Gizmo.

Gizmo is getting up two or three times a night to nurse. She actually went eight hours (8!) the other night without feeding. It turned out to be a bit of a fluke but it was lovely nonetheless. When I told the doctor how long she slept, he patronizingly told me that he understood it could make a mother nervous when the baby starts to sleep like that but that I shouldn't worry. I told him, "This is my second child. I wasn't worried. I was just happy to be sleeping."

The best part about this time is that I found the lactation room in my office. That's right. A room actually dedicated to breastfeeding mothers. I didn't bother asking when I had to pump for Peanut so I spent the year pumping in a unisex bathroom with a chair. It wasn't bad but it wasn't great.

This time, I asked for an alternative. I was led to a room with special code only given to lactating mothers. It has two comfy chairs, a fridge AND an old school electronic Medela pump that if you had the parts for, you could use. Seriously. It is away from the high traffic areas of the building so it is quiet. I couldn't believe it. It made me even more thankful that I work for this company.

I only have one issue. And I will state up front that it is very minor. I haven't figured out how to explain the black pump bag that I am often seen carrying off to the lactation room, especially to the men in my office. Many of those that work with me directly know what I am doing when I disappear two or three times a day. I just grab the bag and tell them I will be back in a few minutes. I also take my phone in case of emergency (I work in a newsroom. You never know what could happen from one minute to the next.)

But those that don't know have given me quizzical looks. One asked if I was going to lunch but then seem confused when I went in the opposite direction of the cafeteria. I think some of them have put two and two together and don't ask.

So here's my question. How do I discreetly explain the black back to my coworkers that ask (yes, I know it is none of their business but people are bound to ask and I am not embarrassed to tell them. I just don't want them to feel embarrassed for asking.)

The doctor check up

Let me start off with the good news: Gizmo is in great health. She's doing everything she is supposed to developmentally. She's grown three inches since birth putting her at 23.5 inches (26.5 if you count her faux hawk, which just will not be tamed) and is now at 11 lbs. 8 oz., up from 8 lbs. at birth.

She hated getting her shots and was hella pissed. With Peanut, she stopped crying the minute I picked her up after her shots. Little miss? Oh no. She let me have it, which was just the perfect way to end a not so great experience at the doctor.

So here's my rant: I was at the doctor's office for 90 minutes today just to be seen by either a doctor or nurse for a total of 10 minutes.

We waited in a very busy waiting room for 45 minutes. Gizmo cried because she couldn't fall asleep. She couldn't fall asleep because a very angry toddler who was waiting with his mom kept screaming and screeching. I didn't really blame him because they were waiting just as long as we were.

Children were wandering everywhere, a couple of them trying to touch Gizmo or get a closer look at her. I'm not a complete germaphobe but I really didn't want these unknown kids in the doctors office for unknown reasons/contagious diseases getting up in my baby's face especially with a not completely developed immune system.

Peanut got antsy and insisted on changing seats about four times even though Tinkerbell was on the television. She whined and wanted to go home, flopping around on the seats and the floor. Admittedly, I should have dropped her off at the sitter's first but she said she wanted to go with us and I wasn't anticipating such a long visit.

I texted my husband (after I finally got Gizmo to go to sleep) at the 40 minute mark and said they had 5 more minutes before I got bitchy. Thankfully they called us back.

We then waited to be seen by a nurse then waited for a doctor then waited some more for a second nurse to administer the shots. To top it off, we waited 5-10 minutes in line to check out.

I scheduled the doctor's appointment thinking I might be 10 minutes late for work. I was an hour late, which makes me nuts, especially since I just came back from maternity leave.

I've stayed with this doctor's office, despite not always being happy with it, because I can usually get in and get out quickly. We have another appointment in two months. If we have to wait like that again, I'm switching.

What's your bad doctor's office experience?

Night out

Several months ago, the husband discovered that the Old 97s, one of our favorite bands, was coming to Orlando. Bands we like never ever come down here. Orlando is about two hours away. The show was on a weeknight. But tickets were only $20, and another couple wanted to go, too. We couldn't resist. We bought tickets.

A couple weeks ago, we realized what we had done.

Going to the show meant leaving work early and feeding us and the kids on the fly. We had to find a babysitter able to get to our house no later than 5:30 and also willing to stay until at least midnight. All of our babysitters are from daycare, which doesn't close til 5:30, so we had to find someone who was leaving early or had a day off. Most of the girls who sit for us also are in college, so staying past midnight on a weeknight is not ideal . Friends volunteered, but that meant waking up a whole household, which also has young kids, in the middle of the night.

But, we worked it out and last night, we went to a rock show.

I'm working on four hours of sleep and two big mugs of coffee. We paid $140 just for tickets and babysitting.

It was worth it. Lack of sleep because of screaming hipsters isn't so bad when you're used to lack of sleep because of screaming kids.

Two months old, a day late

Gizmo turned two months old yesterday. Above is the obligatory duck photo. As you can see, her hair refuses to be tamed. Some is falling out. Some is growing longer. More is growing in. We cannot go anywhere without 18 people stopping us to comment on her hair. I love it.

She is the sweetest thing, quick with the smiles and coos. She also has come around to liking the swing and can I just get an Amen? Because it is so much easier to get the family ready for an outing when the littlest one is content in the swing.

Everyone asks what kind of baby she is. She is a fairly easy baby. Laid back like her dad. It could be her personality or that I don't feel wound tighter than a eight day clock since we've been here, done that. Either way, it is a good not to worry about everything and just enjoy having a baby.

Notes on the return to work: Some of my coworkers actually applauded when I walked in and the people who work for me requested that we not have any more children. It is good to be loved.

I only cried leaving the house. The husband stayed home for the day, making it easier for me. He said Peanut asked for me all day, which made me feel good since she was all, "peace out, momma, don't let the door hit you on the way out. I've got my daddy, I'm good, woman" or maybe that was just how it sounded in my head.

She did tell her father last night that she wanted a baby in her belly. I think my husband's head exploded while he threw up in his mouth. He told her she better never have a baby in her belly. When he relayed this to me later, I asked, "don't you want grandchildren?" he mumbled something and stalked off. Good thing we have at least a couple decades to get him prepared for the idea.