working on it.

Having two kids is totally different than having one. Totally. Someone once told me that having one child is like having an accessory, and it's kind of true. When it was just me and S traipsing through our days, things were awfully simple. There's a lot more juggling with two. Trying to figure out how to time nursing, diaper changes, clothing changes, preschool drop offs, and all the rest is interesting, but we're hanging in there. At least we are so far. It's only been three days.

Anyway, despite the craziness, I don't believe I'd change a thing. I am so totally in love with both of these gorgeous kiddos. I could eat them with spoons. And maybe a dollop of lightly whipped cream.

Here they are getting ready for soccer practice yesterday evening.

And here's a look at how our day went yesterday. S and I are making Easter grass to decorate the table with. It'll hopefully be more interesting than the bagged stuff...it'll definitely be more ghetto. T was not interested in arts and crafts time...as you can clearly see.

the recap.

The odds aren't great that I'll get through an entire post without one or both of my children needing something, but here it goes.

I don't think the insanity of our recent lives has been communicated here, and I think some things that maybe should have been communicated, weren't. I think everyone knows that M's daddy was ill. It was eight weeks of stress and worry, but he passed away peacefully on March 30th with M at his side, as he had been for most of the eight weeks. We hightailed it out of town the next day, heading to Fort Wayne to arrange the funeral. We were gone from Thursday until Tuesday...driving halfway each time. It was a good trip in terms of being able to spend time with family and friends. Anyway, I'm not sure that many of you knew about that. And I'm certain that some of you would want to know because you love M. He's a lovable dude. At least I think so.

We got home on Tuesday, April 5th. I went into labor on Wednesday, April 6th. T was born on Thursday morning at 2:12. You know that part.

Natural childbirth (or pseudo natural childbirth where your epidural kicks in just before the last push) sucks. That is all I'm going to say about that. I'd rather forget than relive it.

I lied. I'll say this: if you're lucky enough to have a very dear friend go through the pseudo-natural delivery with you as your nurse...and she still wants to be your friend after the fact, count your blessings. You've got a very good friend indeed. I think I'll be thanking her profusely until the end of time. Thank you, L. Thank you. I love you. Get an epidural.

Friday morning M didn't feel well. At all. He thought is was a combination of exhaustion and having eaten out for so many days in a row. He thought wrong. He came down with the plague and was promptly banned from the hospital. Then S got sick, too. The hospital graciously allowed me and the preemie an extra nights' stay. That's one huge bonus of delivering at a local hospital...they aren't churning out babies hourly, so they can be flexible. Thank goodness. Sunday morning my parents came to take me and T home from the hospital. M spent the next day or so in bed. S spent the next day or so mildly sick and supremely whiny.

Having a sick husband and a sick preschooler and a newborn in a house where you haven't spent more than about 12 hours in two weeks is not ideal, but it's life. Things are decidedly calmer now. We're settling into our new normal, and we're loving our lives...even without adequate amounts of sleep.

Anyway...my slightly cryptic comments about quarantining my husband and about our trip to Fort Wayne needed some explanation, and there it is.

Now that it's out of the way, here's my new favorite picture of T. I realize that we're not providing nearly enough photographic evidence of his existence.

I call this one "The Boxer," and I recommend that you sing a little Simon and Garfunkel as you look at it. Or bust out with some Rocky quotes. Or maybe bounce around like Muhammad Ali. Whatever gets you into mood to imagine the Shrimp as a contender.

I should probably stop calling him the Shrimp.

adventures in parenting a male.

It's no shock: I've already been peed on. That happens to everyone, right? This morning was perhaps a teeny bit more unique.

So the rule is to put a diaper or something over the little man's junk before changing a diaper to avoid getting squirted with urine. That's pretty common knowledge. Right now, however, T is healing from his little snip snip procedure. Because of that, I don't want to just put something on his business for fear that it might (yikes) stick. So I've been living on the edge...just hoping he won't pee on me. And he hasn't peed on me today, but he's peed on himself twice. The first time was the good one. I'd just finished getting him all cleaned up...new diaper in place...gauze all ready to reapply...clean outfit underneath him...when...squirt. It didn't look too bad at first. Then I realized that his hair was wet. He'd managed to pee on his own head. I got a warm washcloth and as I was giving him a wipedown, I saw a puddle in his ear.

I realize it's kind of gross, but really it's just funny. Not everyone can pee in their own ear. My son is gifted. I do hope that he develops some other, slightly more conventional, talent.

Beyond that, M and S seem to be recovered from their 3 day stomach bug. No fevers. That is a good thing because it's been a little crazy trying to adjust to life with a newborn when one half of the family is plague-stricken.

baby t, day 2

Here we are...chilling out at the hospital. You get to stay an extra day when your baby is pre-term. I'm not complaining. The nurses, one of whom is especially fantastic, watch baby T at night. And I get all the juice I can drink, which is a lot.

Anyway, things are going well. T almost had to get shipped to Nashville yesterday because his preemie lungs were working a little too hard, but his mama held his hand and he got all better. I like to think it was all me that made him well. Now his lungs are pumping nicely, meaning calmly, and he's waking up to nurse enough that we're able to stop worrying about supplementing. Oddly, we never had to worry about that with super S. She always nursed well, and we never had to think twice about her gaining weight.

So, T is healthy, and I feel great compared to how I felt after S was born. There are loads of pictures of the little heartbreaker, but I'm in the hospital. I can't be expected to deliver the baby and upload pictures. I promise we'll share as soon as we're home.

Thanks everyone for all the well-wishes. We appreciate them all.

Happy Birthday

T surprised us three weeks early, but he is doing great.

Arrived in this world at 2:12AM. 19 inches; 5 lbs, 10 ounces.

Ouiser was awesome.

baby number one vs. baby number two

We've all heard things like, "every pregnancy is different." And, in my now vast experience, that appears to be true. I've carried T differently. The sicknesses were different. It was all just different. But that's not what I'm here to talk about.

What I'm here to talk about is this: when I was pregnant with S, I was convinced that I was going to have her four weeks early. I just knew it. It didn't happen, and that's cool with me. However, I was ready for her arrival six weeks ahead of schedule. It was pretty typical Ouiser. The nursery was ready. The bag was packed. The birth announcements were designed.

Baby T?

Not ready. I am emphatically not ready. My bag isn't packed. The nursery is a mess. The car seat isn't in the car. While I understand that with my second child, I have the necessities: boobs, diapers, car seat, I am ill prepared. And now I'm having contractions. Contractions that are getting longer and closer together and ever-so-slightly more uncomfortable.

I am sincerely hoping that I can jinx myself out of labor by posting this. Really. Because the pajama bottoms that I was planning to take to the hospital are in the washing machine. Because my house is an absolute wreck from all the recent insanity and being in Fort Wayne for five days....and having carpet installed upstairs. Somebody, send me "stop labor" vibes.

Please.

missing in action.

Sorry. It's been awhile. Things have been undeniably crazy around these parts. While I don't have the energy...or even the desire...to recap the last week of our lives, I'll tell you this: four-year-olds playing soccer is the greatest thing on Earth. No matter how crappy things are going, it is impossible not to laugh uproariously at six pre-schoolers on a soccer field. For the record, our team is unquestionably bad. Hysterically bad. Like, "we hope we have to play the gold team" bad. And the kids don't care one iota. At least my kid doesn't. On a positive note, our kids are apparently wonderful listeners...when Coach Andrew says, "stand here," while the other team prepares to inbound the ball, those kids stand there. And then they watch the other team's players move the ball right past them into the goal. Over. And over. And over. And my stomach hurt from laughing and cheering so hard. Here are some pictures.

Aside from the adventures of the Soccer Monster...one night last week (I think the only night we were able to sit down and eat as a family) S asked me, "Mom, will you make me spaghetti and meatballs?"

"Not tonight, but another night...sure."

"Okay."

Then she ate a little more aglio e olio...and then hit me with this one, "Mom, what's a meatball?"

M and I cracked up. Of course, I'm dutifully making spaghetti and meatballs because while S is a pretty good eater as far as four-year-olds go, she's not usually interested in trying new things, so when she asks for something she's never had, I'll make it. Now PW's meatballs are simmering on my stove, and my house smells like heaven. For the record, I've deviated from my darling Ree's ground beef/pork combo. We're actually having bison meatballs. We're exotic like that. Plus I think it's funny to say Bison Balls. I crack myself up.

Until next time, peeps...

how PW is bad for the environment.

I think my newish devotion to Pioneer Woman has been kind of obvious. I mean, I want this woman to be my neighbor, my friend. I want to sit around and sip coffee in the afternoon with her. I might be willing to move to Oklahoma to make this happen.

Anyway, I'm trying to take it easy this afternoon since it's been a tough day in the breathing department and the swelling ankle department. Naturally, I have been looking at recipes in the PW archives and on Tasty Kitchen. A girl who's worried about being as big as a bus should be looking at dessert recipes, right? I thought so.

I came across a few new recipes that I want to try. Recipes that I am certain Mr. Ouiser will like and that Little Ouiser will try. Then I printed them and put them on the cookbook holder, so I'll see them when the time comes to make next week's menu. I realized as I put the recipes in the kitchen that since I've developed my PW obsession, I've been printing (and trying) a lot more recipes. A lot. Granted, the ones that I like earn a coveted spot in the World's Greatest Cookbook and the ones that I don't like make it into the scrap drawing paper pile, so things aren't really getting wasted. Alas, more paper is still being used...and more ink. And we've been eating more meat, so I worry that my love for Ree Drummond might be killing the planet.

Oh, well. I'm not going to worry too much. I'm busy simmering the sauce for tonight's pasta.

polling.

So, we've got a dilemma. Go figure.

There's this dog. Not our dog...though that's also a dilemma. This dog belongs (we think) to some neighbors. He has a collar but no tags, and we see him on their porch, so we assume he belongs there. This dog is a roamer. He is in our yard by 7am every morning, where he does his morning business and then pseudo-buries it like a cat in a litter box. So, not only is this dog crapping in our yard, he's then digging in our yard. He frolics across our lawn multiple times a day. Multiple times a day it torments Otis. Understandably. He also tends to lurk when S and I are outside playing, which, frankly, frightens me. I have no reason to suspect that the dog is anything but friendly, but that doesn't mean that I want a strange dog anywhere near my family. You don't hear stories about attack dogs mauling small children. You hear stories about dogs whose owners swear they're harmless mauling small children.

Here's the dilemma.

M wants to just call animal control. Let them come out and issue a warning or whatever it is that animal control does if you're found blatantly not in compliance with the law. I worry that will be bad. I tend to think we should go meet these people and explain the issue (you know...poop, digging, fear for my daughter's lovely face). I like to assume that they'd be reasonable. But maybe not. Maybe we'd be subjected to flaming bags of dog sh!+ on our front porch. Maybe these people are mafia.

Anyway, here's today's big question: would you try to contact the neighbors on your own, or would you refer it to the proper authorities?

We're at a loss for how to handle the situation, so I've decided to open it up for debate. Your participation in the debate is appreciated.

For the record, this dog has apparently been roaming the 'hood for a good long while. Either he only craps in ours, or no one else cares.

the soccer monster.

S is practically grown now. She'd probably fit right in at Colgate, though she'd admittedly have trouble getting a drink at the Old Stone Jug. (That's a place, right?) Maybe I'm being overly dramatic. I'm prone to that. In reality, she just had her first soccer practice last night. Getting my baby strapped into shin guards was weird. Putting her in cleats was extra weird. Implementing the "no cleats in the car" rule that I grew up with was extra super weird. Last night, it was tough to see her growing up. Today, we're back to sending her to preschool so she can learn more about the letter "U." Maybe it's not time for Colgate after all.

Anyway, here's the play-by-play for S's soccer debut.

• My brother Drew is her coach. Through no instruction of ours, she calls him "Coach Andrew," which is funny because mostly she calls him "My Drewsey."
• We had a crazy search around the house and car before practice last night because we couldn't find her "purple soccer headband." Learn from my mistake. Never tell your four-year-old that a particular headband is for a particular function. It's like losing a lovey. Luckily, I found it and the whole soccer season isn't in the crapper.
• When Drew had the kids introduce themselves, most of the kids were reserved. S proclaimed, "And I am S," and she honest-to-God curtsied. Then she told everyone she was going to be a princess when she grows up. No doubt, kid.
• It was cold at practice last night. I sent S in shorts anyway because she's hot natured. All the other kids were bundled up tight, as were their parents. And all the kiddos and parents were complaining about the cold. Not S. Because she's the soccer monster. And soccer monsters are tough as nails. Nails, I tell you.
• Here's the breakdown of our team: S is the tallest and hottest. Her fave friend SR is the tiniest and the coldest. She ran to either me or her mother begging to get warmed up every three minutes. Our buddy L is the thirstiest. He'd run onto the field, kick the ball, then run back for a drink. I don't know the other three kids who were there, but one is almost as tall as S, one is the hacker, and the other has no distinguishing trait thus far.
• At the end of practice (very loose interpretation of the term practice, by the way), Drew huddled the kids up. S interrupted him every four seconds. Sincerely. She wanted to talk about the team's name. They'll have gold jerseys, and she thinks that they should call themselves the Gold Heroes. She wants to be Hero Stella. Drew could not get a word in edgewise. We had to have a talk with her about that on the way home. I'm afraid he'll kick her off the team if she keeps it up. Who am I kidding? She's the Soccer Monster*. Any coach would want her!!

Next week, I believe Drew is breaking out the orange cones and having them do something other than run around chasing balls. That'll be a trip. Then her first game is next Saturday. It will be awesome...until she realizes that there's Gatorade and snacks on the sidelines. Then we'll have lost her.

*Here's how she got that awesome nickname. The straps at the top of her shin guards don't really fit properly, and the velcro digs into her calves. I cut two small pieces of flannel to put underneath to keep it from irritating her. When I realized that I needed to do this, we needed to be in the car on the way to practice, so I didn't have a chance to dig through the fabric store that is my attic. However, I had some flannel next to the sewing machine to make burp cloths for T. It has monsters all over it. S looked at it like I'd lost my mind when I tried to put it near her body. After all, this is the child that would totally wear a tiara and fairy wings to practice if I'd let her. Then I explained to her that it makes her "My Little Soccer Monster." She bought it, and when she's the captain of the US Women's Soccer team, Soccer Monster licensed apparel will be all the rage with little girls across the country :)

on the job learning.

Parenting is awesome. It really is. If ever there was a job where you learn as you go, this is it. You learn how to take care of the kiddo(s). You learn how to take care of yourself and your SO while caring for the kiddo. You learn how to live all over again because things are just different when there are little ones involved. Good different, definitely, but different just the same.

Case in point: cooking.

I love to cook. Truly love it. I love to chop things. I love to mix things. I love to smell the things that I'm cooking, knowing that there is a semi-magical transformation happening as the yeast and the water and the pinch of sugar combine with flour to make pizza dough. Or how something as simple as smelling onions and garlic and butter can make everything seem alright, no matter how bad a day you've had. Love it.

There's a funny thing happening in my kitchen these days, though. There's a four-year-old who wants to help. Always. She gets seriously peeved if there's nothing she can do to help, and sometimes there isn't. Sometimes everything has to happen at the stove, where it's too hot, or at the cutting board, where things are too sharp. She is not a happy camper when Mama says, "I'm sorry, there's nothing for you to help with right now."

I love that she wants to help. I love that she's interested. I really do. Really. I love it. And I know that children helping in the kitchen is good for them in lots of ways. They are exposed to fractions. They learn to follow written instructions. They see what goes into the preparation of their food, and kids really do eat more varied things if they're involved in the prep work. I've seen it. And I want S to want to cook. I love the idea of having time with her in the kitchen...when she's older.

But sometimes, Mama needs the free therapy that comes with kneading dough on her own. Sometimes Mama just needs to be alone in the kitchen. Sometimes this Mama just doesn't have the energy or desire to clean up the extra mess that comes with a four-year-old helping out when there are large quantities of flour involved. And then I feel like a bit of a rotten mother because I'll shoo my little mini-me away.

And then she goes to her play kitchen, makes something herself, sets her little play table properly, invites me to tea, and I know that everything is going to be alright.

Life can be tough, but it is so good. Especially when your preschooler pours you tea and offers you a wooden cupcake.

keeping it short.

Today, the post will be short and sweet.

Things NEVER to say to a woman who is miserably pregnant with her second child:

Oh, the second child is by far the hardest.

Thank you, woman with five kids. I'm going to throw myself in front of a bus now.

tgif.

I love the weekends. Normally, I love the weekends because the Ouisers all get to be together, and I have some help in the parenting department from 8-6. This weekend is different, though. I'm looking forward to the weekend for Mr. Ouiser. He needs a break. Have you seen him lately? He looks a bit like he's been hit by a truck. Between the amazing amount of work that he has to do at work and the amazing amount of stress in his life that comes from this roller coaster of caring for his dad, he's kind of got a lot going on. He leaves the house in the mornings around 5:30, and he hasn't been home yet this week before 6:30. Then he works from home after he's eaten dinner, twice working for a couple of hours after I went to bed. Also, he hasn't slept well in the five weeks since his dad first got sick. He's constantly on edge, worried that the phone will ring. So, he's operating on practically no sleep. Loads of work. Sick parent stress. And a hormonal wife. Also, there is an upcoming birth to worry about. I don't even think that's made his radar yet.

I think it's safe to say that the man deserves a break. He at least needs a weekend.

So, I'm making dinner. Chicken and dressing. Green beans (he won't eat those, they're for me and S). Cherry Cake Pudding. I'm hoping beyond hope that after dinner, he'll put his feet up and relax. Maybe watch a movie. Maybe he'll just fall asleep. But Mr. Ouiser needs to rest, so send him some restful thoughts, will you?

Here's a photo (shocking, I know) of the little helper that would love for her daddy to get some rest...or at least a yummy cake.

good things.

I must seriously seem bi-polar lately. One minute I'm gushing over how grateful I am to have wonderful people in my life and yadda yadda. The next minute I'm all...you know desperately down in the dumps. I don't think I'm bi-polar. I think I'm hormonal. Third trimester, you know. Anyway, I've decided to be positive today. Even though it's rainy. That's really something for me. You have no idea.

Anyway, some good things. In no particular order.

1. If you want to make my daughter love you, make her scrambled eggs. If you want her to be your slave for life, make her bacon, too. I didn't make her bacon, but I offered to make her eggs this morning, and she practically leaped out of bed. For the record, I would probably make her eggs more often, but she would literally sit and eat half a dozen eggs if I'd let her, and she is seriously unhappy without three eggs worth of yellow fluffiness. I worry about her cholesterol if I encourage a three-egg-a-day habit. So, eggs for Little Ouiser.

2. Mellie Mellie is coming home a day early this week because she has an eye appointment tomorrow. That means that I'll likely get to sit and have coffee with her and chitchat tomorrow afternoon. It makes my heart so happy.

3. If that weren't enough, C is coming tomorrow night on her way to G's shower in Memphis. My two favorite women in one day. Glorious. I think I'll finally make PW's Cherry Cake Pudding.

4. Pepcid...with a prescription. I mentioned this on Facebook, but my life has so drastically improved in the last three days, that this little miracle pill deserves two shout-outs. Even with Zantac, my heartburn had gotten insanely out of control. I had noticed long ago that my trouble breathing becomes exponentially worse when I'm stressed. I had not put two-and-two together, though, and realized that the constant searing pain from my chest up through my esophagus was causing stress. Duh. Anyway, now that the heartburn is under control, breathing is coming a lot easier, too. And...And!! My doctor told me that it's totally okay to take two Tylenol before bed every single night for the next two months if it helps me sleep through my joint pain. So, hello. Mama's been getting some real sleep the past couple of days. It's miraculous.

5. S helped me make Stuffed Pizza Rolls for dinner last night. We filled them with ham, pineapple, and mozzarella. They were good. She loved them, M loved them, I thought they were pretty darn tasty. And, get this...the whole time we were putting the toppings onto the little squares, I was just dreaming of possibilities. Roast beef, provolone, and roasted red pepper. Diced tomatoes, fresh basil, and mozzarella. Goat cheese, roasted red pepper, and prosciutto. Brie and apple and cranberries. You name it, I want to wrap it in homemade dough, bake it, and devour it. Especially if there are soft cheeses involved. I've almost reached a breaking point in my desperate desire for Brie.

6. I am not so naive as to think that everyone has experienced knee-buckling, gut-wrenching falling in love. Not everyone knows to the very microscopic center of their being that they are with the person that they're supposed to be with. And that's okay. To each his own. But I'm lucky. Mr. Ouiser is my other half. I know it every single day. I just don't always think about it. Today I'm thinking about it because I just finished PW's book. So, if you want to remember what it was like to fall head over heels in love, or if you just want to read about it, you should procure yourself a copy of that book. It's funny how Marlboro Man is so, so nothing like Mr. Ouiser. He's an honest to God cowboy for crying out loud. M is a cartographer. But there's something about the relationship between PW and Marlboro Man that is the same. Maybe it's the way that everything just clicked from the beginning. Maybe it's finding out that I'm not the only person who thought of marrying their future husband within a couple of weeks. Maybe it's knowing that there are men out there who don't play head games...men that will just let you know that they love you and will be there for you and take care of you forever and ever...and be great dads...great human beings, really. It probably doesn't hurt the comparison that M and Marlboro Man both get up for work before the sun rises. The difference being that M puts on chinos and button downs and nice sweaters while Marlboro Man puts on Wranglers and chaps. As I said before, to each his own. Anyway, read the book. Love your husband or wife or whoever.

7. That's enough for one day.

nesting?

I'm not far enough along in this bun-baking process to think that what's going on in my life right now is the proverbial nesting instinct. I've been wrong before, though.

Nesting or not, I've been pseudo-inspired by Simple Mom to do a little closet cleaning. I spent a couple of hours yesterday weeding out the closets and our drawers. M no longer has socks that will allow his toes to show. I no longer have shoes that I have held onto just because I used to love them. I'm pretty good about getting rid of clothes that I haven't worn in recent memory, but I always find it difficult to let go of footwear. No more. The donation box has already been dropped off at the local help center, and the trash pile is already in the outdoor bin. The hand-me-downs that S will never be able to wear are already gone to friends who hopefully can use them. I feel lighter already.

I also had carpenters here this morning to get the ball rolling on a couple of projects we'd like to think about. One such project is a storage bench for our shoes. If that were to be completed, I think I could actually love our enormous closet. For now, the shoes are just everywhere. It is so not Ouiser-like.

Beyond all the closet cleaning, but related to making life a little simpler, I thought this post over at Small Notebook was pretty fabulous. Even if you don't crowd your brain-space with project ideas, I think the message is valid. I suppose it's pointless to de-clutter your house if your mental to-do list is basically insane. Pop over there and read it if you get a chance.

Now, I have pizza dough to make. Have a great Wednesday, peeps.

busy bees.

You all know I'm a planner. I love a plan. I love a list. So, today was different. I was planning an outing to Nashville tomorrow, but it's supposed to rain. Since I needed to go to four different places and thus move a four-year-old in and out of four different places, I decided on a whim (whoa!) to go today. S and I loaded ourselves into the car and headed east.

First stop: Michael's. I needed several things that would've required internet shopping and three different stops through town if I'd stayed in DC to shop. I love local and all, but that ain't happening. I was prepared to keep S away from the kids' crafts section. I didn't realize I really needed to blindfold her. We didn't even get in the door before she started oooh-ing and aaaah-ing. There were bins of fake flowers outside and in the entryway. She thought they were ravishing. Then as soon as we got in the doors, there were Easter eggs and bits and bobs for decorating said eggs. Then, wham! Easter cupcake supplies. And sparkly baskets. Then St. Patrick's Day cupcake supplies. Then ribbons. Then beads. Then sequins. Then wooden dolls. Then wooden birdhouses. Then paint. And brushes. And stickers. Then yarn. Embroidery thread. More paint. More stickers. More, more, more. I am amazed that I got out of there only buying her two $1 kits to make necklaces (one for her, one for Little Feather Nester).

Second stop: M's office. We went to Chick-fil-A for lunch, which doesn't sound all that exciting, but Cherry Coke is from heaven, as are fountain drinks, and you don't find Cherry Coke "on tap" everywhere.

Third stop: picking up some paperwork from the bank.

Fourth stop: back to M's office. Preggo bladder full of Cherry Coke. You know how it is, right? Plus, S needed to sing for the people in M's office and make him princess dance with her.

Fifth stop: Target to exchange S's shinguards for the ones that A recommended and to return the ginormous bathing suit I bought for the Cincy trip and never put on. Hello, forty bucks, it's nice to see you again...

Sixth stop: Toys R Us. You're getting this right. I took S to Michael's and Toys R Us in the same day. Oddly, she saw a Barbie story book that she wanted to look at when we walked into the toy store. I told her there wasn't a place to sit to read it but that she could look at it as we walked through the store. It kept her occupied for most of the time we were there. We only had two detours into Barbie/Princess land.

I think it's hysterical that my daughter was more enamored with Michael's than with the toy store, but I suppose the nut doesn't fall far from the tree.

Once we got home, we did a little glue batik project (more to come) and now it's dinner time. Sayonara, peeps. I'm wiped out.

that's just cruel.

My cousin A graduates from high school this year (as do my sister S2 and my cousin J). Because I made a quilt for A's sister H, I am now dutifully making one for her. With all of the nuttiness in my life right now, I look forward to working on the quilt, and I finished piecing the top a few minutes ago. I actually find quilting and embroidery and all that mess pretty relaxing...mostly because it's darn near impossible to be stressing or thinking of other stuff when there are pointy needles involved. You lose concentration, you poke yourself in the fingers...or screw something up that requires a mulligan, and that ain't cool. Anyway, here's the cruel part. Preggers as I am, I am finding it increasingly difficult to sit at my sewing machine. There is no apparent comfortable way to be there. I spent just under half an hour at the machine today, and my back has been in knots ever since. Cruel, cruel world.

Also, the quilt I'm making started off as an Amy Butler pattern. This is the second time I've attempted one of her patterns. The first time it was a bag pattern. I was pretty unhappy with that pattern. I remember thinking that it was poorly written, but I was willing to admit that I was (and am) a sewing novice and as lazy as the day is long. This time, I don't think it's me. I ended up going rogue with the quilt. It just wasn't coming together properly. Plus, get this: I bought $150 worth of fabric for the silly thing. I sincerely have enough material left to make a second quilt. My enormous punch bowl is FULL of leftover fabric. And that's not even counting the extra THREE YARDS of backing fabric. Maybe I can sell the second quilt to pay for the first one. Anyway, I'm not generally a conspiracy theorist. A no-good complainer? Sure. Conspiracy theorist? No. However, I've got to think that our darling Amy Butler has upped the amount of fabric that she says to buy because she also recommends using her fabrics. There's no other conceivable explanation.

I will say this: I was planning to make the quilt bigger than the pattern. Lots of quilt patterns are for lap quilts and throws, but the point of this one is to go on A's bed at college, so I figured out how much extra fabric I'd need to increase the quilt size appropriately. There were random diagrams with loads of multiplication sitting around our house for days before I hit the quilting shop. I guess I should've just bought what the pattern called for after all.

That's enough complaining. Frankly, the all purple quilt is turning out pretty darn cute. A will love it, and that's what matters. Right?

In addition to quilting and embroidering, I thought S needed a little mommy-and-me craft time yesterday, so we made some new playdough and then played with it. Here's the only picture I took of us playing. You've heard of coke bottle glasses? S wears Bonne Maman jar glasses.

Also, my baby girl has strep with a wicked rash. You can see it on her chin in the picture. She's so pitiful.

so overwhelmed, so much to be thankful for.

Dude. Life is rough sometimes. I know you all know what I mean. We had our recent drama. It sucked, but we were reminded of our blessings, which is always a good thing. But it's just seemed like the crazy keeps happening. It's not really even worth going into. Sick kid. Worried mama. Concern. Hysterical mama. Stress that shouldn't be a part of my life but that I can't let go of. And the pregnancy hormones make it all seem like it's been multiplied by a thousand. Anyone out there that can relate? Anyone else just feel like they're drowning sometimes? Anyway, I've been feeling a lot like that lately.

And then I see how great I have it. That my problems are those bumps in the road I mentioned.

My friend Toddler Tamer posted this today about a friend's crusade to raise money for children's cancer research.

And it's pretty timely because an old friend from college has a daughter who is battling cancer right now. It's gut wrenching.

And I have two friends, A and A, who are living right now with significant physical pain as a part of their daily lives.

And my friend S's husband just lost his father.

And the list could continue.

And I'm trying to remember to just breathe. Just be a good mama to the girl that's here now and the boy that's coming along soon enough. Try not to stress my husband out with hysterical bursts of hormonal crying.

They're just bumps in the road. The sun is shining. I am blessed beyond belief. And I am sending what little positive energy I've got out into the universe for my friends that really need it. We probably all should.

you don't know jack...

...but Jack knows the weather.

S eats her breakfast at her little table in the living room. On most mornings, she watches Jack's Big Music Show while she scarfs her oatmeal or Cheerios or yogurt or waffles. Today was such a day. If you're in this neck of the woods, you know it's raining cats and dogs outside today. Big puddles are everywhere. It's gnarly out there, and it's safe to say that the Ouiser girls aren't planning to leave the house. Anyway, it's raining, it's pouring...and I'm in the other room. I was happily checking my Google Reader when I heard S singing from the other room, "Rain, rain, go away, come again another day..." To my knowledge, she had never heard that song before, but she picked it up just this morning on Jack. As I stuck my head around the corner to see what she was doing, she was just singing her heart out, marching in a circle. And I laughed.

Move forward about fifteen minutes. S was taking her "heart medicine," which is really a conversation heart. Don't judge me for allowing her to eat a conversation heart at 8am. It's better to have one piece of "heart medicine" at 8am than to have the whole box in the mid afternoon because Mama is sick of hearing her beg. She just realized yesterday that there are words on the conversation hearts, so as soon as she picked today's heart, she brought it to me to read.

"It says, you rock," I told her.

A genuine look of consternation crossed her little face.

"You mean it says, you climbed a rock," she replied.

Then she popped the pink heart into her mouth, secure in the knowledge that her mother is either a lunatic or slightly illiterate because the phrase you rock doesn't make any sense to a four-year-old. I suppose it sounds like caveman speak to the preschool set. Or maybe she things that I think she is an actual rock. Either way, I laughed again.

Now she's playing with paper dolls. I helped her put the dolls on their stands and explained to her about taking their clingy little clothes off of the pages they're stored upon. She came into the room a few minutes ago and plopped down next to me. Swinging her feet from the brown chair she said, "Mom, I need to potty."

"Okay, go potty."

"But after that, the princess clothes are hard to get out of the book. I am asking you to help me. I am not yelling across the house, so will you help me?"

"Of course."

And I laughed again.

I hope you're all able to sit back and laugh uproariously at the little ones in your lives today because the weather's not cooperating. Happy Thursday, peeps.

another standby and a daily ritual.

In talking about our standby meals, I forgot one. Veggie fajitas. S devours bell peppers (hooray for Vitamin C, right?), so we've always got them on hand. We also should buy stock in onions, garlic, and tortillas because on the rare moments when we're out of any of the three I go into panic mode. Anyway, having those things on hand makes veggie fajitas an easy go-to meal. All I do is slice peppers and onions, add some minced garlic, some olive oil, and fajita seasoning (I make ours). If I've got limes or cilantro or tomatoes, I throw those into the mix. Obviously, you could add meat to this, but I think I made it clear that we never have meat in our house. Seriously, it doesn't get much easier than this meal. You can throw everything together anytime you've got the three minutes it takes and let it sit all the livelong day. Then all you have to do is saute it in a super hot pan for a few minutes when it's time to chow. Add some salsa, and viola! Delicious.

For the record, our love of fajitas can be traced directly to T the Elder Geomorphologist. He makes the best fajitas in the entire world. I don't know what he does differently than I do, but I stand by the fact that no one can make better fajitas...despite the fact that I haven't eaten them in about seven years. Now that we're naming our son after him, I wonder if it's him we adore, or his fajitas...and all the beer we drank with him. Or maybe it's his wife and kids.

So that was the other standby. Here's the daily ritual.

Every single day, as I shower, I draw a heart on the steamy shower door. Every day. Just to remind myself that I love my life and my family. Lots of times I'll also pick one word to write above the heart. Sometimes it's something that I'm in desperate need of that day, like patience or grace or to heal if I'm sick or hurt. Other times I'll write something I'm extra grateful for that day, like M or S or friends or even hot showers or hot coffee. I know it's kind of silly, but I've never been able to keep up with a journal or a running list. Somehow, though, I can always remember this. Maybe it's because when I'm under the steamy water, I am usually alone (meaning no child regaling me with a chorus of, "mommy, mommy, mommy."), and things are usually quiet, and I am relaxed from the scrumptious hot water. Whatever it is, it works, and it makes me happy to see that heart drawn on the door. Every single day.

Now I've got some embroidery to see to. And a pot of decaf to brew. Happy Thursday, peeps.

Oh, I almost forgot. S brought me lunch.

a bump in the road.

Last week was a tough one around these parts. Some of you know what I'm talking about, and some of you don't. If you don't know, just know that it wasn't a tough week in my normal complain-prone way, it was actual yucky stuff. But we're through it, and that's a wonderful thing. We were reminded once again that we are very blessed to have amazing people in our lives...and frankly to have amazing lives, period.

In the midst of said tough week, I had a project that I needed to work on for my faux-aunt/grandma, Mimi. Mimi has an aunt who is turning 90 this weekend, and she'd asked me to make a little book for her like someone had made for her on her recent 70th. It was "90 Reasons We Love our Aunt Rachel," and the list was compiled by lots of relatives. The reasons just needed to be written out and have simple illustrations added. I think that Mimi felt guilty that I was working on the book in the midst of a crisis, but really it was good for me. It gave me something exceedingly positive to focus on. I've never met the infamous Aunt Rachel, but reading all the reasons that people love her and admire her was inspiring. I'm now chomping at the bit to tag along to her birthday party because I want to meet her.

Then yesterday, Scarlet Lily sent around a forward that was a lady's list of lessons that life had taught her...the list reiterated so many of the things from Aunt Rachel's list it was a bit uncanny.

And last night I was reading Whole Living and there were articles on happiness and simplification that reinforced a lot of the same stuff.

And these are all qualities that I strive for in my life already. I wasn't reading about reinventing the wheel. I've been reading about things that already matter to me and my family. Things like accepting people and their differences. Things like welcoming people into your life and your home. Basic kindness. Maintaining a life that isn't overwhelmed with stuff...loving what you've got and letting go of the rest.

The whole point of this seemingly disjointed post is that sometimes, even when things suck, it's good to remember the good things. Sometimes you have to sit back and focus on who you are and who you want to be and how whatever crisis you're facing will become part of you. Not letting a crisis define you. Aunt Rachel's book had the following as a reason that some anonymous family member loved her, "As a young mother she faced heartache and hardship. She looked at it as a bump in the road." Yesterday's email list put it this way, "Frame every so called disaster with these words: In five years, will this matter?" Sometimes those bumps, those disasters are big. Sometimes they really do matter. But those things are pretty few and far between. Most stuff really is just a bump in the road.

It's not the stuff or the situation that matter. At least I don't think so. I think it's how we deal with them that matters. And that means how we deal with the people in our lives. How we support and love each other. Because the one thing that has shown up in all these random lists and articles is just that: it's our relationships that matter. Our family. Our friends. Not our stuff. Not our little league soccer games. Not the spots on the sofa. None of that is important.

This actually isn't a seemingly disjointed post, it is terribly disjointed. The point is that I've been reminded recently that good friends and family that's there for you...that's important. Love and support are important. And I'm blessed to have all of that in spades. I hope you are, too.

another way that i'm looney tunes.

It's Valentine's Day, so I'll start with wishing you a very happy one. I hope you get a lot of chocolate. I hope someone you love supports a local florist because I used to work for one, and like all small local businesses, all of your business is appreciated and needed. I wish you were here to smell the chocolate cake that I'm baking for Mr. Ouiser. So, Happy Valentine's Day.

Instead of talking about romance and gushy stuff, I'm going to regale you with the story of just one other way that I'm totally nutters. And I mean that in the sweetest possible way. It's all about my grocery list. Mundane, yes. A little crazy, absolutely. I got eye rolls from three separate family members that I ran into at the store yesterday.

Here's the process, which I've hinted at before.

I sit down and try to think of a menu for the coming week. Sometimes it's easy. Sometimes I've just got a hankering for chicken and dumplings or fajitas. Sometimes Pioneer Woman has spoken to me in my sleep. But sometimes it's not as easy. Sometimes making a menu requires that I sit down for an hour with a cup of coffee and every single word ever written by Ina Garten, plus my handy dandy recipe binder (aka The World's Greatest Cookbook). However it goes, a menu is made. So the paper has the days of the week and the corresponding night's entrée written upon it.

Somewhere else on the paper, I'll usually already have written down all the basics that we need for the week: milk, juice, bread, nineteen kinds of cheese, Cheerios, creamer.

Then I have to add all the ingredients that I need to make the stuff on the menu. Lots of times I've already got half the stuff, but you know how it goes. You have to look at every recipe (if you're using a recipe), and then you have to think to yourself, "Wait, do I have enough flour to make pizza crusts this week and make bread? Is there enough butter in the house to make four batches of cupcakes?" You know what I mean. You have to prepare. Like a Boy Scout.

Once the list of everything is written out...all the staples, all the ingredients, all the random stuff like deoderant and contact solution that your husband will not tell you he needs until after you've been to the store and therefore you must anticipate...then I have to write it out again. On the other side of the paper.

I have to break down the list into categories. Produce. Dry. Dairy. Meat. Frozen. Other. For the most part, we could get by on produce and dairy...except we need bread and cereal and Eggos. And gummies.

The list works like a charm. I am like a well-oiled machine when I walk into the grocery. Until I run into my family members and they look at my list and wonder where it all went wrong. And then I start to worry that I should seek therapy.

Happy Valentine's Day indeed.

rotten timing.

Today, I'm going to post about lovely things. I could post about heartburn that's requiring constant use of Zantac. Or round ligament pain. Or my inability to breathe. Or hip pain. Or exhaustion. Or loads of other stuff. But where's the fun in that?

Exactly. No fun at all.

Instead, I'll pontificate about the rotten timing of Spring catalogs. Because that's way more fun. I'm trudging along in my third trimester...not talking about all those rotten symptoms. I'm pretty much the size of a sumo wrestler, but I'm okay with that. There's an extra human hanging out. But I'm growing tired of the maternity wear and the cold, dreary winter. And now Spring clothing catalogs are arriving to remind me that I'm a whale and that I can't wear the lovely Spring clothing as early as I'd like. Granted, T is due on May 1st, so I'll have the latter part of Spring to wear something less wretched than my maternity clothes, but I'm not about to start buying real clothes when there is absolutely no telling what my body size or shape will be after the little bundle of joy arrives. Plus...what I really want...what I covet are dresses. And dresses just aren't practical for nursing mamas. Know what I'm saying? Ever been out somewhere in a dress with an infant and realized that in order to nurse said infant your entire outfit has to be hoisted up to your chin? It ain't pretty. So no dresses for about another year.

To limit the self-torture, I've chucked most of the catalogs straight into the recycling bin. But when Garnet Hill showed up, I made the monumental mistake of opening it. And here are some things that I am drooling over...for your Sunday enjoyment.

For the record, I understand that there's nothing really preventing me from owning the trench coat or the sweater. Oh, that sweater and all its lovely little cardigan siblings.

another day of random observations.

So, here it is. My brain unloading. You will be fascinated. You just don't know it yet.

• Yesterday, I picked up a copy of Real Simple. I don't know why. I couldn't stop myself. Anyway, it recommended that if you're kind of over your morning coffee, you should try warm milk with a splash of vanilla and a dash of cinnamon. I'm trying to cut back on sugar and caffeine lately since I've noticed a direct correlation between my sugar/caffeine consumption and my feeling like preggo-crap. While the cinnamon is bothering me because cinnamon just floats...the warm vanilla milk is pretty tasty. I'm certain I'll fall asleep any moment, though...and have a bit of a caffeine headache later. But, I hate to be negative. (That's funny, right?)
• Fruit punch flavored glucose test drink is funky. Plus, not eating my toast with peanut butter and a banana yesterday morning prior to the glucose test really messed with my day. I felt bad until I went to bed...at 7pm. (Thank you, husband, for taking care of our daughter.)
• My daughter gets frustrated too easily, and sometimes it makes me crazy. M gets frustrated easily, too. And I'm not going to act like I don't get frustrated because I don't want my pants to catch on fire (liar, liar), but I tend to think that I'm awesome and my mistakes add character to my life and my projects. S doesn't feel that way. What have I done wrong? (Please note: a dose of humility would likely make me a nicer, more likable person, but you can't teach an old dog new tricks.)
• I really, really want some wonderful person to take my dog. I am at my wit's end. I fear that in lieu of my current passive aggressive dislike towards said animal, I am going to be downright mean soon. I am trying to do the right thing by putting myself and the precious pooch into a better situation. M's not having it.
• I am super excited about this. Like, super excited.
• I do not want to go to the grocery store today, but I have to. Especially if S and I are going to make cookies later, and I promised her that we would. I must be more careful about what I promise that child.

I suppose that's it. I need to reheat my milk and take a shower. Have a great Thursday, peeps. Stay warm.

on standby

I don't think I'm alone in this one...correct me if I'm wrong. Doesn't everyone have standby meals? Something that you almost always have the ingredients for? Something you could make blindfolded in your sleep? We had one of our standby dinners last night, and as I was making it, I thought I'd share our standbys in hopes that you might share your standbys and we'd all be standby-erific. You following my logic here?

So, beyond pasta and jarred sauce, which is frankly delicious when you don't feel like cooking and sometimes when you do...especially if you doctor the sauce with whatever veggies are about to go to veggie heaven in your crisper and some herbs and a little red wine...and then you add cheese. I'm pregnant. I'm hungry.

So, like I was saying, beyond pasta, what are your go-to dinners? For us the need for go to dinners usually arises from my not remembering what I planned to make for dinner and not being able to make sense of the ingredients in my house. This scenario normally occurs when I write the week's menu on the same paper that I write the highly organized grocery list upon and chuck straight into the recycling bin upon arriving home...before I transfer said menu to the calendar on the fridge. I have a system, and when I fail at my system, there is chaos. There is a need for standby dinner.

Our two basic standby dinners, which are mercifully two of my daughter's favorite meals in existence are noodle soup and fried rice. We had noodle soup last night. It's essentially chicken noodle soup without the chicken. I have to plan for meals with meat as there is never meat in my freezer, and if there was meat in my freezer, it would be frozen and no good for when I realize it's time to cook dinner and there is no menu on my calendar. You still following me? This is how the noodle soup goes.

I peel and dice a bunch of carrots. Or I just chop up some baby carrots. Then I clean and chop up some celery. Peel and mince garlic. Peel and dice onions if there are some laying around that need to be used. Then I heat up some olive oil in a soup pot. Then I cook all those yummy veggies until my kitchen smells delicious enough. Then I add salt and pepper. I read in Alice Waters's The Art of Simple Food that one of the keys to making good soup is to make sure that the ingredients are well seasoned (at least well seasoned enough that you'd actually eat them on their own) in each step of the process. And, therefore, I add my beloved salt and pepper. Next I add chicken broth or chicken stock or water and bouillon...whatever is around. I bring it to a boil. Then I reduce it to a simmer and let that stuff simmer away until the veggies are a yummy, soup-appropriate consistency. Then I add a bag of extra wide whole wheat egg noodles. Those cook through...then I add fresh parsley if I have it...but I never add dried parsley, though there is no logical explanation for that. Maybe it's just that dried herbs aren't as pretty. That's it. Noodle Soup ala Ouiser. Rocket science, it ain't.

As for fried rice...I cook some rice. Then in a chef's pan, I heat a couple of tablespoons of veggie or canola oil over high. I add the rice and stir it up to let the oil absorb. It's not called fried rice for nothing. Then I push all the rice to one side of the pan. On the now empty portion of the pan, I saute whatever veggies I saved from their slow veggie death. Usually it's a myriad of diced bell peppers and whatever onions I need to use. You could use anything, though. Really. I think anything. Once those have cooked for a couple of minutes (to crisp tender), I mix them into the rice, and I add some soy sauce. Sometimes I add too much. Sometimes I don't add enough. I should consider measuring. Once everything is combined, I push it all to the side of the pan again, then I scramble a couple of eggs on the empty part of the pan. Mix it all together, and you're done. Dinner is served. And, peeps...there's carbs, veggies, and protein in this one. Drink a glass of milk with your dinner, and you've got all of your food groups covered. Wicked, huh?

So, those are our standbys. An added bonus is that both of those meals are also excellent for lunch the next day. Now, as I said, pasta and jarred sauce makes a pretty regular appearance around here as does the Ouiser family favorite bread/fruit/cheese combo. Or brinner. Yum. Eggs and biscuits.

I have no idea why I've rambled on about this for so long, but I'm done now.

paying with kisses.

I'm not going to lie to you, peeps. S got spoiled for her birthday. We have to make her friend party a no-gift affair because she gets so much from our family. We bought her a Leapster because of her newfound love of "drawing" on the computer and on my phone's sketchpad. She got an enormous amount of vintage Barbie clothes from my SIL. My parents got her a Happy Birthday Barbie that actually brought her to tears, plus a new coat for her Bitty Baby doll, and a new book. Then Sunday she got a Peyton Manning jersey that caused her to literally squeal with delight, a ton of Disney Princess figurines, and a Barbie vet toy. It's so, so much stuff, but she has played non-stop since she got all of it. She has spent hours on the sofa, dressing and undressing and redressing Barbies. She and her friend A played with the toy figurines for two-and-a-half hours yesterday with no squabbles. I finally had to make them take a break to have a snack. And the vet toy? Let's just say that I've had trouble getting the laundry done today because of the constant requests to play "Barbie and Dr. Alice the veterinarian."

Here's how the Barbie game goes...one of us is Barbie, who owns the sick puppy Emily. The other is Dr. Alice the veterinarian. I'll give you the script for when S is Barbie.

Dr. Alice sits in the blue kids' chair. Barbie, holding the puppy, rings the pretend doorbell.

Dr. Alice: Come in, please.

Barbie: Hello.

Dr. Alice: Good morning, I'm Dr. Alice.

Barbie: I'm Barbie.

We shake hands.

Dr. Alice: Who is this? (pointing to puppy)

Barbie: This is my puppy, Emily. She puked last night, and I want to know what's wrong with her.

Dr. Alice: taking puppy Well, let's take a look.

Dr. Alice then uses the stethoscope to listen to the puppy, then she must look at the puppy's ears, eyes, nose, and mouth.

Dr. Alice: It looks like the puppy is a little sick. I think she'll need a shot.

Barbie: Okay, Dr. Alice. I'll pet her to keep her calm while she gets her shot.

Dr. Alice: That's a good idea.

Dr. Alice hands the puppy back to Barbie, and Barbie pets her ears.

Barbie: It's okay, Emily, it will only sting for a second.

Dr. Alice gives the puppy a shot and a pretend princess band-aid.

Dr. Alice: All done. Here's a treat and some milk for her. You should take her home and let her rest for the day.

Barbie: Thank you, Dr. Alice.

Dr. Alice: You're welcome. That will be eight dollars.

Barbie looks concerned, then she gives Dr. Alice a bunch of kisses and walks away.

There is literally almost no variation in this little script. Occasionally, the puppy has the flu. Sometimes it's the "puke bug." But every single time S plays the pet's owner, this is how it goes, and if I say something wrong like, "I don't think Emily will need a shot today," S corrects me.

So, if you have a sick puppy, it would appear you should send it to our house because we're the cheapest vet around...especially when you consider you don't actually have to pay money. You can just pay us with kisses. We're a cheap date apparently.

Hope you're all having as much fun today as we are, but please come finish my laundry if you're bored.

keep calm and party on.

The fourth birthday is officially on the books. Finite Incantatem. Stick a fork in me, I'm done. You get the picture.

Last night was the big Princess birthday party, otherwise known as S's Royale Birthday. There were kiddos in princess dresses and boys with swords tied around their waists with their belts. There were homemade cards. I probably don't say it enough, but we are so blessed to have wonderful friends and wonderful kids in our lives. I am thankful for the people in my life constantly. I should probably tell them instead of you as few of them read this blog.

Alas, without further ado…the Royale Birthday in pictures.

something new to complain about.

Little Ouiser had a great birthday. I'll lead with that. And a picture for good measure...

...because I'm good to you, right? I made her biscuits and eggs for breakfast. We decorated some delicious cupcakes together. She played for hours with her friend S, and I don't think that either of them took a swing at the other. Her mama and I chatted. Little Ouiser rested on the couch watching the Strawberry Shortcake movie that I DVRed for her. Her daddy came home early, and we gave her her big present (more on that later, I assure you). We had the Feathernesters over for dinner, and the girls made their own pizzas. We ate. We sang to S. We had cupcakes. I read books to S and L (and T, I suppose). That's the birthday rundown. That's not what I'm hear to talk about today.

Today I want to talk about stuffed animals. I am serious.

I hate stuffed animals. Hate them. I fear I might be alone in this loathing because stuffed animals are everywhere. It's a kajillion dollar industry from what I can tell, and it's not slowing down because the darn things are so cute that people just keep buying them. And they are cute. And cuddly. Don't get me wrong, I see the appeal. Here's what I don't like.

S has approximately fifty-seven thousand stuffed animals, and she wants them all to live on her bed. Every morning we have to say "Good morning," to Froggy and Bubblegum Cake (a plush doll) that she sleeps with. Then when we make her bed, we say, "Good morning" to Rosie the Pillow Pet, Bea the bear, Pinky Princess the tie-dyed bear, Mouse, Duck, Sleeping Beauty, Curious George (who moonlights as Cosmo Brown from Singin' in the Rain, the aforementioned Froggy masquerades as Don Lockwood), Sheep, and Baby Stella the doll. We have to pile them just right onto her bed. Then we have to unload them again for rest time because there isn't room on her bed for her and all the animals. Then we reload after rest time. Then we unload again at bedtime. It gets tedious, and every single time that I try to move an animal to the play room, she drags it back because, "That's not where it goes, Mommy."

So what is one supposed to do with all the animals? I could buy one of those hanging toy basket things. I could buy one of those stuffed animal nets that hangs in a corner and makes stuffed animals a dust-trapping part of one's room decor. I could put them in a big basket. I know there are options, but if you employ one of those options, then the animals probably won't get played with, so what's the point in having them? This is not to imply that S plays with hers because she doesn't. The goofy things just take up space and make me crazy.

Look, she loves Froggy. He's been with her forever, and I could never part with Bea. Our friends B and S gave her to S when she was still in the hospital. But all those other ones? I'd throw them into a nice hot fire if I wouldn't get thrown into Mommy Dearest jail.

Am I alone in this? Am I?

Probably I'm the only person who cares enough to blog about stuffed animal hatred, but I think about it almost everyday, and when I saw this post during my morning internet surfing, I just couldn't contain my complaints any longer.

Now, I'm going to check on my daughter, who may or may not be hypnotized by her new Leapster.

and just like that...

...I have a four-year-old. Really. Four. Years. Old. It's hard to believe that I have loved her so much for so long already, and that I've spent so much time simultaneously wanting to hug her until she pops and pinch her head off. Parenting is nothing if not contradictory. It's amazing what being a parent can teach you about unconditional love.

The point is this. As of 1:01pm (13:01 to my Colgate hubby), my darling girl will have been a part of my life for 35,064 hours. I wouldn't trade any of them. We've laughed. We've cried. It was better than CATS and certainly better than actual cats.

Happy Birthday to my gorgeous four-year-old. The one that made me proud by actually recognizing the number four on her new birthday shirt. That's my brilliant baby. She also just told me that she'd dress herself today because she's four years old now. This'll be a treat.

it begins today.

Let the birthday celebrations begin. S doesn't turn four until tomorrow, but we're taking cupcakes to school today. Her request? I assumed it would be pink, pink, pinkalicious, but I was wrong. She wanted "yellow like the sunshine." Could it be that my darling daughter is finally catching on to the fact that sunny warmth is vastly superior to the dreary gray of winter? Probably not, but just the same there is a platter of orange slices and vanilla cupcakes with yellow-orange butter cream and yellow sugar crystals. Plus an enormous jug of that hugely healthy kid favorite: orange Hawaiian Punch. At least there will be a warm color palette in her classroom even if it's cold outside.

As for me, I'll be spending the day with my newest mountain of laundry. You are so jealous.

ohio, go home.

Back when I was a working stiff, my friend Tommy Taco introduced me to the following concept: no matter where you are (grocery, mall, farmer's market, library), the prime parking spots are almost always occupied by cars with Ohio license plates. Also, no matter where you're driving, you'll always spot Ohio plates. Anyway, he'd see cars from his home state of Ohio and yell, "Ohio! Go home!" It stuck with me, and four years later I still say, "Ohio! Go home!" every single time I see Ohio plates. It never fails. (I'd like to say that I know some awesome Ohio natives, so this has nothing to do with not liking Ohio or it's peeps. It's just a fact that Ohioans are everywhere.)

All that was just to point out that the Ouisers have been in the Buckeye State. S and I headed north with M for a meeting he had on Friday morning. We drove through some lovely weather. Weather that turned a five hour road trip into an eight hour road trip. The drive up was awful. The trip was not awful. The trip turned out to be pretty nice. Here's the rundown:

• The person who invented hotels is a genius and was likely a parent. Between mini fridges, continental breakfasts, swivel desk chairs, heated indoor pools, and lamps that are easy to turn on and off, hotels are like Elysium for preschoolers.
• One hour alone with a three-year-old in Ikea is fun. Two hours is Hell. File that away in your brains in case you ever take a three-year-old to Ikea without help. Or take a flask.
• No matter where you are, your child can be entertained in a bookstore or library. This idea has never failed me. Ever. We spent an hour at the West Chester Barnes and Noble, and if this pregnant mama hadn't had a blood sugar crash, we could've stretched it into at least an hour and a half.
• Henceforth, we will plan a trip to an art museum in every town we visit that has one. We didn't hit in museums in Cincinnati because the weather made travel conditions less than stellar, so M's meeting ran over a couple of hours. We did patronize the Speed Art Museum in Louisville. It was wonderful. They were hosting the Madcap Puppet Theater on Saturday, and we took in a performance of Peter and The Wolf, which S loved. Then she was able to make her own hand puppets. She made a pink princess and a purple princess. You're shocked, aren't you? I hope to go back to the Speed someday without a child because it seemed like they had a really, really nice permanent collection in addition to traveling exhibits. We didn't get to explore much because S wasn't in the mood, but I did get to see a Rembrandt portrait, and it made every trying moment on the trip worth it because it was that good. Really, the masters are the masters for a reason. All the lovely Renaissance pieces on display in the same gallery paled in comparison. And they were gorgeous, too. I love art. Really, really love it. All the way to my bones.
• Carmen the Garmin must have been mad at us on Friday evening because she made us drive literally in circles through Louisville. I was very mad...I had not seen the Rembrandt yet, so I was allowed to be furious.
• The new Honda has now been named. I christened her Amelia because I decided she's a girl. And she's a Pilot. Get it? If she disappears somewhere over the Pacific, I'll know that I was tempting fate.
• We are now home, and I'm baking cupcakes because someone who lives here is turning FOUR in a couple of days and we're taking cupcakes that are "yellow like the sun" to preschool tomorrow.

Now I must go watch some football. My darling Mr. Ouiser keeps pointing out that there are only three games left this season, and I need to watch the Pack win it all. Just so you know, we're mostly pulling for Green Bay because we like Aaron Rodgers, who looks freakishly like our future son's namesake when he has a helmet on his head. Food for thought. Clearly, the comparison would be easier if I had a picture of Aaron Rodgers hugging a younger, thinner version of me or if I had a picture of T the Elder Geomorphologist (as he will henceforth be known) in a football helmet. Alas, you'll have to make due with what we've got.

Later, peeps.

Please note that I used the term "henceforth" twice in one post. I'm bringing that word back into regular circulation.

a collection of random observations.

1. I found out this morning before my doctor's appointment that my OB was the three-time national Rollerblading champion. This is highly amusing to me, but I now know that good ol' Dr. C does not get my humor. When we were discussing the little "growth spurt" I've managed since my last appointment, I asked him, "Would you recommend Rollerblading as exercise for a pregnant woman?" He thought I was serious. Please. I can barely hoist my enormous butt out of bed. Like I'd get on Rollerblades.
2. Speaking of my growth spurt, allow me to tell get all deep and philosophical for a minute. Indulge me, it's a rare occurrence. I have proof that God exists. (For the record, if I were Catholic, I'd probably be excommunicated for this reasoning, but I'm an Episcopalian, so no one will care.) When we bought The Castle, there was a huge full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. One of those great big ones that you only see in old houses. I desperately wanted to keep it intact, so it was carefully taken down and stored in the garage for the duration of the remodel. A month or so ago, M called me out to the garage to point out that a huge shard of it had broken off, and he was going to chuck it. Fine with me. I'm a pregnant klutz. I would likely sever an important artery if it stayed around here. While we still have the $4 mirror from Walmart that we purchased in grad school, I refuse to bring it into The Castle on principle. So, we're living in a world with no full length mirror. This is seemingly a problem, but here's where I realized that it was God who broke that mirror. I suffered the huge indignity of having to try on a bathing suit this weekend. (Huge being the operative word.) When I saw my enormous beached whale of a body in the dressing room mirror, I knew that God took that full length mirror from me to keep me from having to see myself in it everyday. Thank you, Lord.
3. Because I am pregnant and a beached whale, I've been letting things slide lately. Like not coloring my hair as regularly as I should or not coming out of pajamas for days or not even knowing how long my hair is because it's been in a ponytail for six solid months. But I've decided that looking like fat roadkill isn't helping me to feel better about myself, so I'm going to start wearing lipstick all the time. You know, like little old school Southern ladies who put on lipstick to check their mail. In fact, I put on lipstick right after I brushed my teeth this morning. I am certain that this will boost my self-esteem, and when it works, I'm going to market the idea and make millions of dollars. It will be awesome.
4. Pioneer Woman's Chicken Tortilla Soup makes me happy.
5. Now I need a cup of decaf. Later, peeps.

the strawberry that loved to play in the patch.

If you've got kids, you already understand the following statement...and if you don't have kids but plan to someday, you will eventually understand that:

There are very few moments that turn out as awesome and perfect as you really want them to be.

That's not to say that life isn't full of awesome moments, it's just to say that you can throw your expectations out the window. Almost nothing ever turns out as you imagined it. Babies don't sleep during the hours you want. Toddlers won't cooperate with projects and outings. Preschoolers (at least my preschooler) are wildly opinionated and stubborn (so I suppose I should still be in preschool). I don't know what's coming next, but I assure you that I've mostly given up on expectations. As much as I can, I have to just go with the flow, and if you know me, you know that's something.

I digress.

The point is: last night was perfect. It was exactly what I wanted it to be.

After dinner, I mentioned that we should have some family art time. We all dutifully grabbed paper and markers and crayons, turned on some music, and headed to the table. We drew and colored and had a grand ol' time. S wanted to take turns drawing fruits, so I drew and colored a strawberry. Then I suggested that we make up a story about the strawberry, and she embraced the concept with vigor.

We wrote three pages of S's first masterpiece The Strawberry that Loved to Play in the Patch. I will save it forever because she may someday be a famous author, and I'll be able to prove that her illustrious career in words began at the tender age of three. The story is illustrated, it has a cover, and it's bound together with red embroidery thread. It was a lovely, lovely evening.

Of course, now we are going to have to write more and more stories, which is fine until I want to blog about them instead of writing them. Alas, I must encourage the creative genius.

I'll leave you with M's rendering of our family. It's classic Mr. Ouiser.

one of those days.

I still haven't puked. It's not about that. And I refuse to be ruled by fear.

Today is one of those days, though. It's not what you're thinking. It's one of those days during which I must make/do something to my house. If I weren't pregnant, and I knew how to put the third row seat down in the new car, I'd be on my way to pick up the antique bench I bought for our "entryway." Alas, I have to wait for Mr. Ouiser for that.

So these are the days on which bizarre things are born. Like today's Vintage Tea Towel window treatment. Tea towels, embroidery thread, and nails. Done.

For the record, this is the window that's being replaced. My windows are not that dirty. Also, don't say anything about the lighting or picture quality. I'm such a slacker that you're lucky you get pictures at all.

squeaky clean.

This is going to sound bad, and I don't mean it that way. Trust me, I don't. But, somehow. Somehow our house is just neater when M is out of town. I don't know why because he is not a messy person. Maybe it's because I spend less time on dinner when I'm not feeding him and thus more time picking up toys and crayons. Really it's probably an illusion. Anyway, he's been out of town for the better part of the week. He was in Washington being awesome on Tuesday and Wednesday, and he went to Kentucky yesterday. So the house has been pretty well picked up.

On top of that, S came down with a stomach bug yesterday and yacked all over the place. So, now things are picked up and disinfected. I mean, wow. My house is clean. At least the parts we go into are clean. I don't even count the formal room or the baby's room yet (though I did dust and sweep them the other day).

S's sheets and blankets are being washed in hot water as I type, and I'm guessing that I'll acquire said stomach bug as soon as I get her bed remade. I think that's the way it goes, right? You think you're in the clear...then WHAM! I'm seriously hoping that doesn't happen because being pregnant is miserable enough without adding a stomach bug into the mix.

I'm hoping that all of you have a lovely, puke and snow free weekend. Now, please send me all of your barf-free thoughts. I'd appreciate it. And you know I'd do it for you.

Happy Friday, peeps.