Writer's block

I don't know what is going on lately but I am having trouble finding anything to write about. Everything seems dull or I don't have enough time to craft anything thoughtful. Hence you are getting some randomness:

I am reading my first actual book in more than a year. I've read all ebooks since I got my Nook before Gizmo was born. But a friend offered to lend me the sequel to a book I read last year. Rather than wait for the library to get the ebook or buy it, I borrowed the actual book.

(See what I mean about dull. Sigh. Let me try something a bit more exciting.)

Peanut has been very expressive with her love lately. While using the restroom last night, she yelled downstairs to us, "I LOOOOOOVE YOOOOOOOOOU!"

I'll take it.

She also informed me that she wants to take a big boat to go see her Aunt Hiwawry (read Hillary). Then she said, "I can't say Hiwawry. It's hard.

*****

I had a very frustrating incident yesterday that made me cry. It is an unbloggable moment that really wasn't a big deal. But, while I pulled myself together, I tried to figure out why I was so upset. I've really been much calmer lately, trying to let the little things go.

Then I realized I am PMSing. Damn hormones. Getcha every time.

*****

The husband had the difficult task of answering Peanut's questions about the school shooting in Ohio this week. I don't know how she knew about it ... maybe saw it on tv or overheard someone talking about it.

She wanted to know if it happened near her school and why it happened. He told her it happened far away and that sometimes we don't know why bad things happen.

She amazes me everyday with how old she is but even those questions blew my mind.

*****

Worried that Gizmo isn't verbalizing much, I went back in the blog to see how many words Peanut had at her age.

(I know, I know. I shouldn't compare. Every kid develops differently. The second kid usually takes longer to talk.)

It doesn't look like Peanut had too many more actual words although she could do quite a few animal sounds (including yelling cock-a-doodle-do minus the a-doodle-do loudly whenever she saw a rooster.)

But I think Gizmo is more developed in her receptive language at this age. She climbs up the stairs and takes off her diaper when we tell her it is time for bath. She goes right to her highchair at dinnertime. She shakes her head no when we ask her questions (even when I ask her to sign please).

She also has this awesome way of adding excitement into mundane things. When we walk into a room, she rounds her little mouth and proclaims, "WHOA!" When I hand her a fig newton "WHOA!" When she gets in the bath, "WHOA!"

She's kind of awesome.

So, I've calmed my (probably) irrational fears. For now.

*****

I started working out again. Broken foot be damned. Actually I am taking it easy, sticking mostly to the bike or weight machines.

I realized I am about 15 pounds heavier than when I got pregnant with Peanut.

I need to do something. And after pinning lots of super cute dresses this weekend while looking for options for upcoming events, I figured I should get back in shape before buying anything.

On a semi-related note, my closet looks really boring now after looking at so many fabulous dresses. I will use them as my motivation for regular work outs.

Randomness

Downton Abbey ate up most of the husband's and my evenings the last two weeks. I want to be the Dowager Countess -- or perhaps Lady Mary. And now I'm sad I have to wait a year before it's back on. I haven't felt that bereft after a television show's season ending since the last episode of Sons of Anarchy.

What should we be watching now?

----

I remain in a reading funk. I'm reading, but none of it is very good. Unlike Michelle, I don't think YA fiction is my cup of tea any more. I will always love my old favorites -- in fact, the reading funk has gotten bad enough to make me think about rereading L.M. Montgomery -- but new YA stuff just makes me feel old. I find myself identifying with the parents or wanting to give the main characters stern lectures about not being a twit (see: Looking for Alaska).

Any suggestions? Good nonfiction? Adult literature that is neither too trashy nor too serious?

----

I wear black heels at least once a week to work. My last pair were at least two years old, scuffed and with the heels wore down to the pins. I spent three months thinking, "Damn, I need new shoes," every time I put them on before finally throwing them in the trash to force myself to buy a new pair. I went out this weekend to do that and came home with this pair from Aldo --- and three new shirts, a bright pink shirt dress, a pair of skinny jeans and a pair of purple cropped jeans (on sale for $7). I'm thinking of going back and buying a pair of flat brown riding boots.

I don't shop often, but when I do, I binge.

----

What randomness is keeping you busy?

How to get rid of holiday candy

Perhaps your kids go to a school or daycare that doesn't allow candy to be brought in as a treat on holidays or birthdays. Our boys do not go to that kind of daycare. The Boy's teacher, in particular, loves to give the kids candy on special occasions, so he always comes home after holiday parties with a lunch-sized paper bag full -- and I mean full-to-overflowing -- of candy.

Perhaps you are the kind of mother who would let their child pig out on the candy until he's sick of it. Perhaps you are the kind of mother who would just throw the candy away out right. I am neither kind of mother. I tend to let them have a piece or two as a treat everyday and eat a piece or two or three or four myself -- moderation in all things, right. The problem with this method is that the candy lingers forever.

If your kids are like mine and you are like me, I have a solution that will get rid of a good deal of that candy -- at least the chocolate portion: Candy Jar Cookies. Yes, it's still junk, but cookies go a whole faster than candy.

I created these cookies out of desperation. I wanted to make chocolate chip cookies for the boys when their friend came over for the babysitting exchange. But I discovered I had no chocolate chips. I also had no oatmeal or peanut butter, so these easy cookies were out and I had promised cookies. I had to deliver. I started scavenging. First, I found a tiny package of M&Ms in the Valentine's candy bag, then it occurred to me I could chop up the Hershey's kisses and the generic chocolate hearts. I figured the cookies-and-cream bar wouldn't hurt. A bar of dark chocolate, chopped up, and some dried cherries rounded out the measuring cup so I had the "chips" I needed. The end result was quite good, if I do say so myself.

I don't remember where I got this chocolate chip cookie recipe, but it's my go-to version. I usually use butter instead of shortening because I like the taste better, but either works. The shortening makes a better texture.

Candy Jar Cookies
2 1/4 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup softened butter OR shortening
3/4 cup sugar
3/4 cup brown sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 large eggs
2 cups chocolate chips OR scavenged candy OR dried fruit OR a combination of all

Mix dry ingredients in a small bowl.
With an electric mixer, cream together sugars, butter/shortening and vanilla.
Beat in eggs one by one, scraping the bowl after each.
By hand, gradually mix in dry ingredients, then the chips/candy.

Bake 9-11 minutes at 375 F.

Babysitting exchange

Me: Do you guys want to go to Aunt E's and Uncle S's this weekend and play with H?

Boys: YEAH!

Lad: Play H!

Boy: What are you and Daddy gonna do?

Me: Well, we're going to go out and ... (realizing I don't want to tell him we're going to the movies or something else he'll want to do) ... um, we'll do something that we like to do but you guys don't like, like, um --

Boy: Like go to a bar. To drink BEER.

Me: Actually, yeah.

----

I'm not sure what that conversation says about the husband and I. We really aren't lushes, but we do enjoy a good beer. Regardless, the point here is that we're trying a babysitting exchange with our friends, whose little boy is right in between our boys in age and who live right around the corner from us. We took their kiddo this last week; he got some work done and she went to get a manicure. It was zero extra work on our part. It actually made Sunday easier because the boys all kept each other entertained.

This weekend is our turn. Our friends are taking The Boy and The Lad after nap Saturday. I have absolutely no idea what the husband and I are going to do. (Actually, that's a lie. If I can rope him into it, we're going to look at fabric for the chair I'm getting recovered.) Just knowing that we'll have those couple hours together is making me happy this week. And let me tell you, this is the kind of week so far that requires being grateful for small blessings.

Right now, I'm pretty grateful for good friends.

Do you guys ever trade babysitting? How often do you splurge on real babysitting for date nights? (We might do that once a month, maybe.)

Hair and foot

So the ragamuffins and I got haircuts this weekend. This was Gizmo's first and out of all the kids in our family (niece and nephew included) she did the best on the first hair cut. Peanut got her hair cut to her shoulders, which looks cute and I got bangs.

Voila.

Everyone has been super nice about them. One co-worker told I looked beautiful, which a gal can't hear enough. Three others said they didn't even recognize me.


Peanut, however, keeps looking at me like I sprouted a second head, telling me, "I don't like your hair on your head like that."

Hillary told me I shouldn't take advice from someone unable to wipe her own butt.

Point taken.

And even better news, I am broken-foot-boot free as of this morning. I went to the doctor for x-rays today. Apparently the foot is still broken and won't heal for three to four months but because I'm not in pain anymore, I don't have to wear the very cumbersome walking boot.

Truth be told, I can walk faster in the walking boot than I can in regular shoes but I'm done with it. I won't be running or doing any fancy dancing any time soon but I probably wouldn't have done either anyway.

Anything new with you?

What marketing does

We are reading "Peter Pan," the real Peter Pan, to the boys right now. It's more challenging than I remember it; the pacing of the sentences is old-fashioned, so it takes getting used to, and the vocabulary is well-above most modern children's books. But the boys have surprised me by sticking with it and laughing at the appropriate times. It helps that Tinker Bell is even feistier -- and also foul-mouthed -- in the book. Both kiddos thought it was hilarious when she called Peter a silly ass.

It also helps that they've seen the Disney versions, so they know Capt. Hook is bad and Peter has a sword and Tinker Bell is a fairy. Disney movies, as we all know, stick with kids. I was reminded just how much tonight.

Before we read, I always do a quick recap of the last night's pages. The Lad still is just soaking things up, but sometimes I ask questions to see if The Boy remembers.

"Who's Wendy flying with?"

"Umm, Tinker Bell."

"Is that good? Does Tink like Wendy."

"NO!" The Boy grinned, remembering the pinches Tink had given Wendy.

"And, where were they all going? Where are Peter and Wendy and the boys flying to?"

"Um. Um. Uh. .... DISNEY!"

Yeah, not really.

And let me just remind you: my children have never been to Disney.

Ragamuffins

How cute are my little ragamuffins?

Gramma took this picture while they stayed with her this weekend and the husband and I had a romantic Valentine's weekend in which I stayed in bed most of the time sick with the plague. Nothing says romance like snot, coughing and cold sweats.

While the girls look adorable, it made me realize how we all need some hair tending. This weekend, all three of us are getting our hair cut. This will be Gizmo's first trip to the salon. Peanut says she wants her hair cut short but I'm not sure she knows exactly what that means. Gizmo is just going to get some evening out. I'm letting her bangs grow out because I refuse to let the girls have bangs after childhood traumas that involved too short bangs.

I've been getting my hair cut by the same woman since I was 8 years old (she wasn't responsible for the bangs. The problem usually resulted after an at-home trim session.) She has cut three generations of our family's hair - my mom, my sister and me, and now our kids. I drive an hour just to go see her because I don't trust anyone else.

Right after I had Peanut, I chopped my hair off. Exhibit A:

After Gizmo, I decided to let it grow out and then donate when I decide to cut it. Exhibit B:

I think I have enough to donate without cutting all my hair off but I'm not sure I want to do it yet. The husband loves my hair long while my mom keeps telling me it is my hair and I can do whatever I want with it. I just don't know what I want, except low maintenance.

I'm thinking of either staying long and adding bangs (are bangs still cool?):

Or cutting it off a la this:

Any suggestions?

It's awesome

I just saw a Facebook friend's status asking to be reminded how awesome it is to have kids. So after the post about how <a target="_blank" href="http://notraisingbrats.blogspot.com/2012/01/it-hard. html">hard it is to have kids</a>, I thought it would be good to focus on some of their awesomeness.

Kids are awesome because now you have an excuse to color, swing, run like a maniac and talk to yourself.

Kids are awesome because even after they have pooped and puked on you, they can smile in a way that makes you forget you are covered in bodily fluids, or least make you mind a little less.

Kids are awesome because they remind you to slow down and pay attention to the small things - them.

They push you past what you thought were your physical, emotional and mental limits. The 40-hour labor. The sleepless nights of newborns. The sassiness of toddlers. Potty training. Sleep training. All of it makes you realize how strong you really are.

You get to make Valentines again. Christmas ornaments. Blow bubbles. Watch cartoons. Take naps. Have Saturday morning dance parties.

You get to watch a person learn to crawl and walk. Hear them say "I love you" for the first time. Get all of their open mouth kisses until they learn to pucker. Take them to school for the first time.

You get to be the person they call out for when they are scared or hurt or excited. The person they want to tell their biggest secrets to. The person they want to snuggle up with at night.

They make you laugh with their silliness, like when they show you how they can't wink but can blink. They melt your heart with their thoughtfulness, asking if you feel better when you've been sick. They give you a purpose every day.

They really are awesome.

Tell me how your kids are awesome.

Jerry and other brother stories

After we switched the beds, the boys were running from our dining room all the way across the house so they could take a running leap on the mattresses on the floor. They giggled and hooted as they ran this circuit after dinner.

"Watch my friend Jerry!" The Boy shouted.

"Who's Jerry?" I said.

"My brother."

The Lad's name is NOT Jerry. No one has ever called him Jerry. No one we know is named Jerry. The husband and I exchanged puzzled looks and then asked the obvious question.

"Why do you call him Jerry?"

Just as we asked, The Lad ran smack into the extra chair in the dining room, bounced off and lay sprawled, face down on the tile.

"Because he's slippy," The Boy shrugged.

We all giggled, even Jerry.

---

The Boy was not quite awake when, sitting at the kitchen table waiting for his waffle, he realized the Daddyman had gone on a cool down run without him. The husband had waited for as long as he could, but the kids both slept in and we have a time limit in the mornings before school and work. None of that mattered to the still-sleep Boy, of course.

"I wanted to go on the cool down!" he wailed.

The Lad, already eating his waffle, looked across the table at his crying brother.

"RAWR!" He was very obviously trying to get The Boy to laugh.

The Boy did not crack a smile. So, The Lad tried a different tactic. He wiggled in his chair, doing a happy dance.

Nothing. More crying from across the table.

The Lad wiggled some more and waved his arms. Nothing. More wiggling, more waving and a silly roar. Nothing.

The Lad grabbed his fork and cocked back his arm. He looked at me, waiting at the toaster oven and watching their antics. He raised an eyebrow at me.

"Me throw fork? Me throw fork at Boy?"

The Boy burst into giggles before I could even get out a "DON'T YOU DARE!"

---

This is what The Boy told the husband happened the first night the boys slept in the same room:

The Lad woke, scared of bad guys, monsters and dragons.

"So, I told him, 'It's OK. Don't worry. Go back to sleep. There are no bad guys, monsters or dragons. And if there are, Chanker (that's The Boy's dinosaur pillow pet) will scare them away with his RAWR!'"

---

The Lad is getting big enough that he's allowed out on the playground with the older kids at daycare in the afternoons, which means he's out playing with The Boy's class sometimes when I come to pick up the kiddos. The Lad has taken an especial liking to The Boy's teacher, Mrs. A. He holds her hand and follows her around.

He also acts as an extra set of eyes when it comes to his brother. He spent most of one afternoon telling on The Boy to Mrs. A:

"Boy in mulch! Boy throwing mulch!"

The question is: Does he really like the teacher or does he just like tattling on his brother?

Sickness, pregnancy, and Simon Says

The plague has been plaguing our house for about 10 days now. First Gizmo had an unexplained fever with no other symptoms. Then Peanut had snottiness, scratchy throat and generally sad eyes for almost five days but no fever. Then this weekend the husband and I both started feeling icky. I got better. The husband got worse and has stayed home sick two days in a row, something I don't think he has ever done.

I've decided I need to find a way to make a kid-germ bomb much like a flea bomb. I would make millions of dollars.

****

The husband and I are planning a child free weekend. We have plans for a dinner at a quaint restaurant in a great hippie town just south of where we live. Beyond that, we haven't decided what to do.

I need to clean the house but that seems like a waste.

Maybe I will just sleep past 6:30 a.m. instead.

While we will be enjoying a quiet weekend, my mother-in-law will have the girls and her two brand-new lab/golden retriever puppies. She is a brave woman to take all that on.

When we asked Peanut this week what Gramma should name the dogs, she said Big Teddy Bear and Little Teddy Bear. I think Gramma is still looking for names.

****

I made melted crayon hearts for Peanut's Valentines this weekend. While examining their awesomeness, the husband asked where I learned to make them.

Pinterest, of course. When I asked if he wanted to see, he turned down my offer saying that it sounds like once you look at it, you are infect with some sort of plague.

He's kind of right.

****

We've been playing Simon Says lately with Peanut.

While in the bathtub tonight, she asked to play the chipmunk game. I had no idea what she was talking about so I asked her how she played it. She looked at me like I was crazy and said, "You know the game where the chipmunks tell me to do something."

As in Alvin, SIMON, Theodore chipmunks.

****

For about a week, I had the (fear, excitement, freak out) that I might be pregnant. For someone who had her tubes tied after the last baby, this was a bit concerning/overwhelming.

While discussing the possibility with the husband, he looked like one of those teen boys on 16 and pregnant who can't seem to process the fact that he is going to be a father. I am surprised I didn't find him in the fetal position. (And he accused me of doing "these things" for the blog. Untrue.)

A couple days later when I realized that no, I wasn't pregnant, just a bit wonky, the husband actually gave me a pouty face. He said he had worked through his initial shock and had gotten to a good place with the thought of a third child.

I have to admit, I did too.

Still doesn't mean I wasn't very relieved to find out I wasn't pregnant. I can't even imagine dealing with that right now.

Anything happening with you?

How I snagged the husband

Ten years ago today, I was angry. I went out drinking with friends because that's what we did nearly every night back then, and I went out that particular night ready to tell the world to go to hell. I came home with my husband.

But that's getting way ahead of the story.

Mike and I don't remember when we first met. The best man at our wedding brought up this fact during his toast to us. I suppose it looks romantic, as if we always were there, just waiting to be found. Really, there's a much simpler explanation. We both were journalism majors and dedicated staff members of our college paper. If we weren't in class -- and sometimes when we should have been in class -- we were in that moldy dungeon of a newsroom. And when we weren't there, we were in a dark, possibly moldy bar drinking heavily. It's no wonder we don't remember meeting.

But meeting was inevitable. The disaster of a boyfriend I had my freshman year lived with some of Mike's best friends; I had to have been in his dorm room way before I ever stepped foot inside the newsroom. In the newsroom, Mike became friends with the guy who would eventually be our best man. That guy, whom he shared an apartment with for two years, was good friends with Michelle, who of course was my best friend and roommate. Another one of Mike's roommates had lived in my dorm my freshman year. And because Michelle and I lived in a sorority house -- great location, cheap rent, but pesky no alcohol rule -- we spent a lot (A LOT) of time with Mike and the guys from his apartment.

And that's really where our story starts. The first time I remember Mike as anything other than the goofy sports writer with the backward hat, we were in his apartment. It was the summer before my junior, his senior year, and he was throwing a party while we put out the special summer edition of the newspaper. He was editor of the paper that year. His hat was on backward as usual, but we were talking about music and I liked the way his eyes sparkled and crinkled at the corners when he laughed. I liked the way he focused on our conversation in the middle of craziness.

When school started that fall, though, I was hooking up with a photographer at the paper and Mike started dating one of our sorority sisters. We were friends. There were eight of us: Mike and the four other guys in his house, me, Michelle and our roommate. We were sarcastic and smart-alecky and generally considered ourselves superior, despite the fact that we regularly drank ourselves sick. It's just the way it was. We played euchre at the guys' apartment. We went on ghost hunts and drunken expeditions up large hills. We dragged the boys to sorority date parties. Those of us who worked at the paper (i.e. most of us) skipped class to cover Sept. 11. We spent hours every day in the newsroom lounge, waiting on interviews and doing homework. I loved watching Mike work with a reporter. He focused so intently on what the reporter was saying, asking just the right questions to lead the reporter to just the right answer, just the right words.

So, fall quarter ended and we all went home for the long break over Thanksgiving and Christmas. We came back to school in 2002 to cold and drama. I had turned 21 over break, which meant I finally could go with the rest of the group to the bars. I found myself wrangling seats next to Mike because he always made me laugh. My sorority sister had dumped Mike for her ex-boyfriend. The photographer had gotten sick of me; I was sick of hooking up. Michelle and I were fighting with our roommate because we disapproved of her boyfriend. And I was pretty sure I liked Mike.

On Feb. 7, 2002, I was pissed off because of something our roommate had done. It doesn't matter what now; it barely mattered then. I still have my journal from that year, and I read it trying to fix the timeline for this post and blushed over the ridiculousness of it all. Suffice to say: Michelle and I went out with the guys that night to get away from our roommate, and I was in a fuck-it-all sort of mood. I had been flirting with Mike for weeks, but that particular night, I gave up caring if other people noticed or if he would reject me. I threw myself at him. Literally. If someone so much as glanced at me as they passed our table, I'd push up against his arm as if we were in a crowd. He got the point -- as did our friends. They all decided to leave (I've never been more grateful to Michelle than when she elbowed the last one out the door, raising her eyebrows at me) and once they left, Mike asked me out. He confessed he had been wanting to ask me out -- had checked out my butt as we walked to parties, had thought I was the funniest, smartest girl he knew -- but couldn't get me alone.

And then we drunkenly stumbled home; he kissed me goodnight at my house's back door. It was and is the best kiss I've ever received. I went weak in the knees, literally, and I know what that word means.

My mom and dad met Mike after spring break when they dropped my car off at school. Mike and I had not said I love you. We weren't sure what was going to happen after he graduated. But Mom told Dad on the way home that they had just met their future son-in-law. She said we just looked right together, comfortable. That's still true. Sometimes it's a bad thing. A decade into this, surrounded by kids and animals and work, Mike and I both are guilty of taking the other for granted, of lashing out at each other because each trusts the other will take it. But Mike still is my best friend. We still appreciate each others' work. We still talk about music and politics and journalism and books and general goofiness, though usually now it's over Gatorade and water instead of cheap draft beers.

And whenever he gets cranky about my short temper, I can look at him and say, "You knew exactly what you were getting."

One thing leads to another

I've been meaning to kick Beastie out of the crib for a couple months now. He was getting too long for the crib and, honestly, I felt like we were pushing our luck leaving him in there. This is the kid who climbs bookcases and stuffs things up his nose. It was only a matter of time before he scaled the bars and took a nosedive off the railing. So. My plan was to get bunkbeds and stick them in The Lad's room, leaving The Boy's room as a playroom.

But I hate buying mattresses. Like tires, they are expensive and boring and I always feel like the salesman is talking me into something I don't need. And I worried The Boy, not yet 4 when the plan first was hatched, was too little for a top bunk. And The Lad is my baby -- removing the crib would mean the end of babies in my house.

The lone flea that I found last Wednesday was the thing that forced me out of my hemming and hawing ... sort of.

The flea meant the dog and cat had to have a bath. The bath meant the cat was on edge. The flea, despite the baths and the medicine applied afterward, put me on edge. So, we decided to bomb the house this weekend. To bomb the house, we had to put the dog and the cat in the garage. To do that, we had to catch the cat. The cat escaped. Twice. To ensnare the fugitive feline, we had to pull out our bed. Pulling out the bed was the last straw for our antique bed, which already was in poor shape. It collapsed.

The husband was all for putting our mattress and box springs on the floor until I could find a new frame -- but I have no idea what I want. So, I stole the adjustable frame under The Boy's twin and left his mattress on the floor. The boys thought this was the coolest thing ever, to the point that The Lad insisted on his crib mattress being put in The Boy's room so they could sleep together. The next day, it seemed silly to have an empty crib up, so we took it down (SOB!) and being unable to live in chaos, I started organizing the boys into the new bedroom. There aren't bunkbeds yet, but there is a bed nook. They're in there sleeping peacefully now.

This is the room from the doorway. Giant wood dresser to the left on which I cleverly hung hooks for their jackets. That child-size rocker was my mom's and then mine before the boys inherited it. Mike's grandpa made the two bookcases. The little one under the window is serving as a diaper station/shoe cubby. There are drawers on the bottom that hold socks. The green shelf has only books, baseball cards and quiet toys (puzzles, crayons). Everything else is in the playroom. 

The bed nook. I know that wall is a giant blank, but I don't want to hang anything because eventually there will be a bunkbed there. I tried to tape up two dinosaur posters, however, our walls are textured and nothing sticks to them. 

The playroom. The Lad's big boy bedding is tossed on the back of the rocker for now. Generic cars and primary colors to match the color-blocked quilt The Boy has. 

It's not perfect, but I'm happy with it all for now. 

The boys think it's the best thing that has ever happened to them. 

So big

A couple of weeks ago, we had to buy new car seats for Gizmo. While researching what we were going to get, I looked up our state's car seat laws and realized that in six month, Peanut won't need to be in a car seat anymore. Just a booster.

 I haven't looked at her the same since.

 She seems so big to me as she closes in on 4. I find myself searching for what to call her. She's not really a toddler anymore but I stumble over preschooler. Is she really that old?

 Peanut colors inside the lines mostly now. She can identify her letters and tell what certain words start with. With some help, she can follow Lego directions. Some of her pants turned into high-waters overnight. One day her shoes fit, the next she complains that they are too small.

 She tells me she wants to be a police officer when she grows up and she wants to have only one baby. No more. (This talk makes the husband go into seizures.)

 She tells elaborate tales while "reading" her books. She sings made up songs while playing her keyboard pulling in bits and pieces from her day and weaving them together in beautiful, nonsensical verse. One day, while talking on her play cell phone, she called the police and asked them to come pick up her panda bear because he was being bad. (I swear we have not threatened to call the police on her although we might have said we were going to sell her to the gypsies ...)

 She wants to help fold clothes, cook and doesn't fight us (much) when we ask her to clean her room. We still have the occasional toddler battles getting dressed and if her sister is getting attention at dinner time, she whines, "feed me."

 But she is just so big.

 I remember before she was born, taking pictures of her perfect nursery. Sitting in the rocking chair and trying to imagine how our lives would change.

 I remember when she was born, hearing the nurse say, "come on, baby" while trying to get her to take her first breath and that first cry. Oh how that first cry filled me with a new kind of love.

 I remember letting her sleep on my chest and marveling at her perfect little pink bow lips, how her eyelashes touched her cheeks, how her hair was growing into a mullet.

 That small, wee little baby is now this:







So big.

cuteness

Driving the boys to school this morning, they demanded the Avett Brothers. I complied and we all were silent -- well, I was singing along -- listening to the music. A song ended just as we went through the last intersection before the daycare. 

"Momma, can you shut this off?" The Boy said just as the next song started. 

"What?" I teased. "You don't want to just listen to part of a song?" 

He didn't say anything as I parked and shut off the radio. I unbuckled him and he swung his long legs out of the booster seat. 

"It's kind of sad when you can't hear all of it, Momma." 

---

The Boy is in a basketball class right now. Every Wednesday night, the husband takes him to the class and then out to dinner. Meanwhile, I take The Lad home to let out the dog and have an evening together. Tonight, I didn't feel like cooking -- we already had eggs, the traditional no-daddy dinner, once this week -- so The Lad and I stopped downtown for a slice of pizza and ice cream. 

Coming out of the ice cream place, The Lad held my hand and swung my arm, practically bouncing down the sidewalk. 

"Who's my favorite little Beastie Beast?"

"ME!"

We had a brief discussion about decorative frog statues in a window and kept walking down to the car. 

"Had fun," he said. "Had fun eat-tin pizza an' ice cream with Momma."

I almost started crying in the middle of the street. That little bit totally got me through the part of my evening, two hours later, when I discovered a flea on the dog and had to give both animals a bath.