a new goal.

A girl needs goals, and I have a new one. We have a lot of books. My books, M's books, the kids' books. I'm going to read them. All of them. There are some books that I've tried to read and couldn't get through, some that belong to M that I've never tried, and some that I don't know where they came from. I'm starting with the shelf in our bedroom. The contents of Shelf One are as follows (The ones that I've read are bolded):

Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe

Open by Andre Agassi

For One More Day by Mitch Albom

This I Believe II edited by Jay Allison

Pride and Prejudice

Sense and Sensibility

Emma

Northanger Abbey

Mansfield Park

Persuasion

Lady Susan by Jane Austen

Gourmet Rhapsody

The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barberry

The Templar Legacy by Steve Berry*

Bringing It to the Table

The Art of the Commonplace by Wendell Berry

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte

The DaVinci Code

Angels and Demons by Dan Brown

A Walk in the Woods**

I'm a Stranger Here Myself**

In a Sunburned Country

A Short History of Nearly Everything**

The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid

At Home

The Lost Continent**

Neither Here Nor There

Notes from a Small Island**

The Mother Tongue by Bill Bryson

Girl with the Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier

My Life in France by Julia Child

The Green Hour by Todd Christopher

Don't Know Much about History by Kenneth Davis

Geek Dad by Ken Denmead***

The Bluegrass Conspiracy by Sally Denton

Guns, Germs, and Steel by Jared Diamond

Black Heels to Tractor Wheels by Ree Drummond (Pioneer Woman)

Three Musketeers

The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas

Tennessee by Wilma Dykeman

*I tried this one last week, but it opened with a pretty graphic torture scene, and I put it away. In the interest of attaining my goal, I almost moved it to another shelf, but I decided that was silly. Instead, I feel obligated to disclose that I am not going to read this book.

**Bill Bryson is easily one of my favorite writers. I want to have a beer with him. Also, all of the starred Bill Bryson books are on loan to others. Some of them have been gone so long that I don't know who has them. If you've got one or more of them, please bring them home. I miss them.

***I'm not going to read this one either.

Once I've finished off shelf number one, I'll move on to the second shelf. I started this insanity last week and read For One More Day. And I re-read The Great Gatsby, which is on Shelf Two. It was amazing. In fact, I'd forgotten how good that book is. I can't wait to see Carey Mulligan play Daisy because I adore her. Did you see An Education? Oh, Carey Mulligan. Oh, Peter Sarsgaard. I swoon.

Other things I can tell you based solely on Shelf One...aside from proclaiming my undying love for Bill Bryson? Muriel Barberry is kind of incredible. The Elegance of the Hedgehog was one of my favorite books that I read last year. I love Alexandre Dumas. And Victor Hugo...though Les Miserables is also Shelf Two.

Basically, I love books. Now, I am going to pursue some less electronic things like playing My Little Pony with S, reading (Jane Eyre today), and a little sewing.

Happy Monday, peeps. And Happy August!!

wisdom.

I was talking to die frau today, and we briefly discussed our hatred of anyone's having a sense of entitlement. I think I may have expressed my disgust with the whole idea previously. Maybe not. Who cares. I'll tell you now.

One of my least favorite things in the world is people feeling like they are owed something just by virtue of being alive. I think it's important for everyone to value the idea of working for what they want.

Thinking about it made me start making a mental list of all the things I want to teach my kids and the rules they must follow on the road to adulthood. I will share with you now...

• Working hard is important. In fact anything worth having is worth working for.
• You should never expect anyone to hand you anything, but don't miss an opportunity.
• Always, always respect your fellow humans. They can be your teachers, your parents, your friends, or your friends' parents. Respect them. Even if they are idiots. Human beings deserve respect, and I will expect you to dish out heavy helpings of it.
• No one gets anywhere by being a jerk. Even when you're mad, be nice. Don't yell. Don't make obscene hand gestures. Do not use swear words to try to express anger. You'll look like an idiot, and you won't get anything accomplished.
• But you have to stand up for yourself. Because I won't always do it for you. If you have a problem with a friend or a teacher or a coach, I will expect you to try to work it out for yourself first. But I'll always back you up because I'm your mama.
• Do as I say, not as I do. (If I have to stand up for you, I might not observe all the aforementioned rules. You will be instructed to cover your ears.)
• T, you must always go to the door when picking up a girl for a date. And you will shake her daddy's hand and be nice to her mama. You will have her home on time, and you will walk her to her door. Otherwise, you will answer to me.
• S, you will not be allowed to go out with boys who do not observe those rules.
• S, your panties and bra will never be allowed to hang out. You will not go out of my house looking like a skank. In addition to respecting others, you will respect yourself.
• You should always be honest, but you shouldn't be mean. Sometimes bending the truth is okay if it keeps you from hurting someone.
• You will not backtalk. (I know someone who has created a concoction called "sassy juice." It is some abhorrent combination of spices and liquid that she keeps in a squirt bottle, and if her kids backtalk, she makes them open up and she hits them with the nasty stuff. I think it is brilliant parenting.)
• When you break rules, there will be consequences. You will learn this from me because I don't want you to learn it from a court of law.
• You will be grateful for gifts, and you will write thank you notes. (Utterly tasteless and tacky joke: Why don't southern girls have orgies? Too many thank you notes to write. Bada-bing.)

That's all for now because S is wanting to make more aliens from play dough, and I can no longer resist her.

What do you want to teach your kids?

trusting your gut.

I think this might be my final post on the intangibles that get you through having a baby. I know you're saddened. Tremendously.

The thing you've got to do is trust your gut. You have to have confidence in what you're doing. Babies are like dogs. They smell fear. I'm not saying that you have to know everything about everything when it comes to babies because you can't, I'm saying that you just need to believe in yourself. Really, I think that's true of life. Period. I truly believe that if I make a choice and have to hem and haw over it, it's not the right decision. A good decision is a good decision, and 99% of the time, you'll know it in your bones. If you'll just listen to your bones.

You need that with kids. There are so many people who will tell you so many things, and lots of those things are good and helpful. But so many of those things might not work for you or your family, and you have to be able to realize that and go with it. Frankly, there are very few things in life that you can't do over, so it's okay to be wrong. Just be willing and able to keep moving forward.

It's like our sleep insanity right now. When I posted on Facebook that I needed opinions on Babywise and Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child, I think I got more comments than I did about T's birth. Everyone who has kids has an opinion, and they all want to help. I ended up picking up a copy of Babywise, and all it did was confirm what I already knew...that I am going to have to let my baby cry. I'm okay with needing that book to give me a nudge, but I've generally found that all parenting resources are like that. Reading them doesn't tell you how to be a parent, reading them shows you that you already know how.

Here's to trusting your gut.

laugh and the world laughs with you.

Number three on the newborn survival list? A seriously healthy sense of humor/ability to laugh at yourself.

Image from Flickr.

When your child pees on you, you have to be able to laugh.

When your child vomits in your mouth, you really have to be able to laugh after you gag.

When you change your newborn's diaper and they immediately poop, you have to laugh, and then you have to laugh harder when they do it again. Forty-three seconds later.

You have to laugh because if you don't, you'll cry buckets. And really, it is all pretty comical. Living with a newborn is a bit like living in a sitcom...without makeup and wardrobe and craft service.

For the record, your sense of humor will carry you nicely through the toddler/preschool years, too. Trust me, if I didn't laugh regularly at S, I'd have to lock her in a dungeon.

i get by with a little help from my friends.

The next intangible for getting through the newborn days? It's significantly more important than yoga, but I had yoga on the brain yesterday and thus wrote about it instead of this one. Can you guess?

Image from Amber Dawn Photography

It's friends. Real friends. The kind of friends who bring you a half gallon jug of apple juice when you've consumed every drop of juice that the hospital has available. The kind of friends who bring you food. The kind of friends who check on you regularly but understand that you've got a baby and might not be available to answer the phone or emails for awhile. The kind of friends who will hold your baby while you nap or shower or get a cup of coffee or just sit still.

When the baby gets older, these same friends will continue to be invaluable. They will listen to your inquiries about sleep issues. They will try to help you just by listening. And they'll still hold your baby while you get a cup of coffee/nectar of the gods.

They'll also reassure you a lot. Like when you're afraid you're going to strangle your older child because she's pushed you to your limit and you think you might be the world's worst parent...they'll remind you that you aren't. They'll let you know that it's completely normal and that no one will be the worse for wear.

They will also remain your friends despite the fact that you will talk about poop all the time. And naps. And nursing. And how huge your butt is. You should thank them for it.

The point is that you need a support system. At least I do. I need it for my sanity. I highly recommend it.

walk the plank.

The other day, Heather posted a list of her favorite baby things. I started making my own list, but it got a little extensive, so I temporarily gave it up. Instead I'm going to start talking about some of the intangible things that are getting me through newborn land.

Today, it's the plank.

One of the things that was hardest for me to deal with when S was a baby and now that T is a baby is the blob that is a postpartum body. Granted, a lack of sleep and hormonal insanity is more difficult to deal with, but that's a whole different issue. The blob is bothersome to me. When I was pregnant and my body looked like it was inhabited by aliens, I was understanding because it kind of was inhabited by an alien. I understand all too well that your body is different after giving birth, and it should be, but the blob makes me feel wretched.

I am never going to be a person who exercises excessively. It's not in my DNA. And I'm not horribly vain, though I am slightly. I just can't feel good about myself if I look like I ate another human. It affects every part of my life when I feel bad about myself physically. I get stressed when I have to get dressed and nothing fits properly. I want to cry when I look into a mirror and see a lot of extra fluff. I want to barf when I curl up on the couch and my body doesn't curl up properly because there's too much stomach.

Are you grossed out yet? I am. I was.

Enter the plank. Someone mentioned to me once that the only way to get your midsection back after you've had a baby is yoga, and I believe it. I'm still carrying around a few more pounds than I'd like, but yoga is helping a lot. As my muscles, especially my core muscles, get stronger, I can feel things changing. I feel leaner even if I'm not. And my arms are looking better from all that hanging out in plank position, too. Beyond the core and arm benefits, forward folds and wide leg forward bends release a lot of tension that I apparently store up in my hamstrings, and focusing my attention on my breath helps me calm down. Basically, it's a win-win situation for me.

Yoga allows me to fit in a little exercise throughout the day, and even small amounts of breathing and stretching make a big difference in how I feel.

So there it is. One of the things that's helping me feel human in my sleep-deprived state. An added bonus: yoga pants. Swoon.

and miles to go before i sleep.

Oh, my child. My youngest child, that is. He is all over the map. All over it. Allow me to explain...

I am one of those parents that believes with every fiber of my being that kids need lots of sleep. Lots of it. They need lots of time for their little brains to catalog all the new information they're exposed to daily. S was always amenable to that belief. And T agrees with it, but he can't seem to agree with it in any sort of organized, predictable way.

He generally takes two good, long naps during the day. Somewhere between 2-3 hours. Only there is no way to know what time those naps are going to happen. The first one always happens about an hour and 45 minutes after he wakes up in the morning, but sometimes he wakes up at 530, and sometimes he wakes up at 730. Then sometimes, after the morning nap, he can stay awake for a little over 2 hours, but usually it's another hour and 45 before he needs another nap. Most days he even takes a third little catnap in the late afternoon. And he's fussy by 6pm.

So back this all up with me. If he wakes up at 530, he's ready for a nap before 730 in the morning. That's ridiculous, and needing a nap that early tells me one thing: that he needed to sleep longer before he woke up in the first place. But sometimes he just can't get himself to stay asleep. And that's what I don't get.

Let's continue our exploration of a 530 start time. If he takes a nap by 730, then he's usually ready for the second nap by noon. And that nap is over by 3. The child is apparently incapable of being awake for longer than 2 hours, so that makes him fussy by 5 at the latest. Then what do you do?? Do you let him take a third nap at 5, or do you sacrifice your sanity by keeping him awake until at least 6?

Then there's his inability to self-soothe. So some nights we're upstairs with him a half-dozen times, but other nights, he's blissfully calm for about 6 hours. His issue is that if he's unswaddled he body jerks himself awake and/or smacks himself in the face and wakes up. He tries constantly to get his hands to his mouth, but he can't keep them there, which makes him mad. So, we keep him swaddled and he fights. I ordered a Halo Swaddler, and I am hoping that helps...but maybe he needs to be unswaddled and get used to it.

I am quite beside myself honestly. He sleeps enough. I can wrap my head around a 6am-6pm evening from him until he gets older and we are comfortable moving his bedtime back to 7...then 8. (Please note that we will be utterly incapable of any sense of a social life as long as T has to be in bed at 6pm. We'll have to divide-and-conquer.) I just need a little consistency. Maybe I'm expecting too much.

Someone, please, give me some advice. Or a valium. Or a nanny.

overachieve.

When did it become necessary to be the penultimate at everything? When did "good enough" become not good enough? Maybe I'm the only one who feels pressure to do more/be better, and that is an odd statement when I've commented before on not wanting to lower my standards. My standards are pretty high. I expect to cook for my family. I expect to keep my house clean enough for company at all times. I expect to fulfill all my creative needs and grow children who are thoughtful, polite, and creative in their own right. But sometimes I feel that there is more that I need to learn and accomplish, and yesterday, I asked myself why.

For example:

• I constantly think that I should raise chickens. I've got more than enough space, and I love fresh eggs. Love. There is no comparison between really fresh eggs and grocery store eggs. It is not apples-to-apples. However, I am afraid of birds, and these are birds that are guaranteed to try to peck my fingers. Also, I have a perfectly wonderful granddaddy who has perfectly fine chickens, and he is perfectly happy to share their eggs. Somehow, though, I expect myself to raise chickens. It makes no sense whatsoever.
• I have spent hours obsessing over my camera manual this week. Mr. Ouiser bought me a really nice camera a few years ago, and I've never bothered to learn how to take it out of it's automatic mode. The other day, I ran across this tutorial on Pinterest, and I decided that enough was enough...that I was too smart and too artistic to settle for automatic photos. But, why? When I was growing up, just having a photograph that was in focus was good, but now? Now I feel the need to take really, truly excellent photos. Why?

Stop the insanity! There are so many other examples of there being too much pressure on people to live up to unattainable standards, and I believe wholeheartedly in many of them. I believe in breastfeeding and homemade baby food. I believe in composting and gardening and ditching disposable products and so many other things. And I am grateful that I am able to do all of those things because I am fortunate enough to be a stay-at-home mom. But there is pressure for working moms, too.

When will it end? Does anyone have the answer? Can we just be good enough and be happy? I really don't know.

overachieve.

When did it become necessary to be the penultimate at everything? When did "good enough" become not good enough? Maybe I'm the only one who feels pressure to do more/be better, and that is an odd statement when I've commented before on not wanting to lower my standards. My standards are pretty high. I expect to cook for my family. I expect to keep my house clean enough for company at all times. I expect to fulfill all my creative needs and grow children who are thoughtful, polite, and creative in their own right. But sometimes I feel that there is more that I need to learn and accomplish, and yesterday, I asked myself why.

For example:

• I constantly think that I should raise chickens. I've got more than enough space, and I love fresh eggs. Love. There is no comparison between really fresh eggs and grocery store eggs. It is not apples-to-apples. However, I am afraid of birds, and these are birds that are guaranteed to try to peck my fingers. Also, I have a perfectly wonderful granddaddy who has perfectly fine chickens, and he is perfectly happy to share their eggs. Somehow, though, I expect myself to raise chickens. It makes no sense whatsoever.
• I have spent hours obsessing over my camera manual this week. Mr. Ouiser bought me a really nice camera a few years ago, and I've never bothered to learn how to take it out of it's automatic mode. The other day, I ran across this tutorial on Pinterest, and I decided that enough was enough...that I was too smart and too artistic to settle for automatic photos. But, why? When I was growing up, just having a photograph that was in focus was good, but now? Now I feel the need to take really, truly excellent photos. Why?

Stop the insanity! There are so many other examples of there being too much pressure on people to live up to unattainable standards, and I believe wholeheartedly in many of them. I believe in breastfeeding and homemade baby food. I believe in composting and gardening and ditching disposable products and so many other things. And I am grateful that I am able to do all of those things because I am fortunate enough to be a stay-at-home mom. But there is pressure for working moms, too.

When will it end? Does anyone have the answer? Can we just be good enough and be happy? I really don't know.

to pixie or not to pixie?

Oh, Scarlet Lily, why do you do these things to me? Why must you encourage my habitual chopping of the locks? Because, it's pretty easy to convince me that the time has come to relieve myself of all but an inch of my hair. It really is. Thank goodness my husband likes me with short hair.

Of course, I'm old and wise now.

I've been thinking about a new pixie cut for a few weeks, but I told myself I'd give it a month. If I still wanted to cut my hair, I'd do it then, but time has told me that once I get an idea in my head, the only way to stop thinking about it is to do it. Then I just deal with the consequences. In this case, the consequence is spending a year growing my hair out, but I'm used to it.

So, I think I'll chop my hair off next week. In fact, I know I will because I already made an appointment, and I know myself well enough to know that when I sit in that chair, I'll say, "chop it all off."

It'll be my ode to Emma Watson since my appointment is for the opening night of Harry Potter. I'm absolutely giddy just thinking about it. The "it" being both the haircut and the movie.

tea time.

It should be noted that this post has nothing to do with my son, but I like to remind you that he exists. He just doesn't do much. Also, he's three months old today. That's 25% of a year, but I am still not acknowledging his age. He was just born. I'm sure of it. Anyway, here he is in all his adorable chubby cuteness. Oh, I do love him.
This post is really about tea. After S and I went to tea at American Girl Place, she requested that we have a tea party with some friends. Today was the day. S wore lots of jewelry and a hat, and she requested that I also wear lots of cheap plastic jewelry because...it's fancy. So, we got all decked out, busted out some old china, and had us a tea party.

S made menus and demanded that they grace the table. I was not all that pleased, but it was her party.

The Menu

First course

Banana Bread Bruschetta

Fruit Skewers

Second course

Chicken Salad on Pita Points

PB&J tea sandwiches

Dessert

Dark Chocolate Marshmallows

Strawberry Shortcake

There was also pink lemonade, not tea. Little girls don't actually like hot tea.

We (the girls and the mamas) discussed our favorite books, our favorite places to play, and where we'd like to visit. All in all, it was a pretty good morning.

This photo pretty accurately captures the personalities of these three wonderful girls. I'd like to squeeze them all. The Ouiser ladies. Check out the fancy jewels. No boobs were shown to earn the Mardi Gras beads...unless you count the eight times a day I whip out a boob for all in my vicinity to see as I feed my son. But that's another story.

Chicago, Day Three. Fin.

After S's Friday evening meltdown and subsequent hibernation, M and I made one of our better decisions ever. We were planning to stay in Chicago Saturday night and drive all the way home on Sunday. We decided that was not a great plan...we realized that S would be crazy tired again Saturday afternoon, so we abbreviated our Saturday plans and checked out of the hotel a day early.

Of course, we couldn't check out until we had recovered baby Mary.

I had intended to hit the Children's Museum at Navy Pier Saturday, cruise Lake Michigan aboard The Windy, and ride the Ferris Wheel with my girl. We skipped the museum and climbed aboard the tall ship. Clearly you know that I believe in karma. Good and bad. And our experience on the boat leads me to believe that there are a handful of people out there who would've earned it if their wallets had leaped from their pockets into the water of Lake Michigan.

The boat was scheduled, according to the internet, to sail at 1030. I went to the ticket window at 10 where I was told they were sailing this morning at 10 if we wanted to climb aboard. So we did. Only when we got onto the deck there weren't many places to sit. There was a completely empty bench at the edge of the boat, so we hauled the kids to it. We were promptly told by 78% of the passengers that we couldn't sit there. The bench wasn't secured to the deck. Okay. Then we saw what was essentially a large box behind the wheel. Easily room for three Ouiser family butts. We went to sit upon it and were again thwarted by our fellow passengers. This left zero space for a family of four...except that the one long bench under the sail was occupied by four people. There was space for two in the middle and a seat for one on each end. And all four of those people were twerps. One of them even said, "There's room for one right here," as he pointed to his right, "and there's room for two here," as he pointed to his left. I wanted to scream, "Hey, genius! If you and your lady friend moved over, we could sit down right where you are."

I really do hope his wallet got lost. Maybe not his whole wallet. Maybe just his cash. And I hope the cash got picked up by some deserving soul with good karma.

We ended up having to squeeze all three of us into the space for two, and S ended up getting those people to move down a bit by wiggling and being a four-year-old. Normally, I would be very careful to keep her contained, but they earned a couple of pink Keen kicks to the thigh.

We arrrrghhh pirates!

Once we were seated, the boat ride was great. There was a totally inappropriate pirate song. S laughed uproariously despite not knowing that the song was about a drunken sailor's man parts. There were people dressed as pirates, and they gave little mini presentations on sea/lake exploration and piracy. The best part of that was when they asked if anyone knew the names of any explorers. S whispered to me, "Mom, I know one. Dora." It was classic.

T was awake for nine seconds of the trip, and we got photographic evidence.

The water was lovely, the sky was blue, and I didn't get seasick. I did, however, get the mother of all sunburns. I'm talking about an embarrassing sunburn. One that makes you realize that not only were you an idiot for not applying sunscreen, but also you're advertising the fact that you're an idiot. Amazingly, no one else in my family got scorched. Pink cheeks, yes. Sunburned, no. I'm the one who is still molting. They're back to normal.

This face pretty much sums it up.

Also, S helped fire the cannon, and we didn't take a picture.

After the boat ride, S and I rode the Ferris Wheel and the carousel. She completely lost it because the horse she chose to ride didn't go up and down.

Right before she realized she wasn't moving vertically.

We went to a cafe on the pier for lunch, and she continued her display of whining because I'd told her that she could NOT have shaved ice for lunch.

I decided to let her have a shaved ice after lunch, and things were looking up. There were smiles. Then she dumped the entire thing. There were more tears as M scrambled back to the shaved ice stand to replace it. When she was so loaded up on sugar and artificial coloring that we thought she'd explode, we threw both of the kids into the car and left Chicago in our dust.

That's it. The whole story. Pretty exciting, eh? Now we can all move on.

Chicago, Day Two.

So it took me an entire week to sit down to write this post. Eye infection. Sinus infection. U2 concert. Husband with food poisoning. 4th of July. It's been busy. I know you're itching to hear more about Chi-town, though. Aren't you? Yeah, you are.

Day Two.

Day two started with breakfast in the hotel. Again, I'm going to recommend the Omni Hotel on Michigan Avenue because they have a parking and breakfast package. Parking at most of the hotels in Chicago runs about 50 bucks a day. And breakfast...well, all meals stressed me the heck out in Chicago, so not having to leave the hotel room was golden. Plus, when the waiter rolled our table in and made a fuss over S, it made everything that much better.

Day Two was Field Museum Day. And you already know about the insanity that was in terms of losing all of our stuff in the cab. What you don't know is that a taxi is magical to a four-year-old. Magical. Take your kid somewhere in a taxi. They will love it. They will also constantly ask you what all the pictures/bulletins/fliers on the plexiglass are. You will see the taxi driver smirk in the mirror when he realizes that your child may never, ever shut up and you're stuck with her, but he gets to drop all of your crazy off in a few minutes where you will mingle with lots of other crazies. He will continue to drink his Starbucks.

But...onto the Field.

S had already met Sue the T-Rex. She's currently on exhibit at the Space and Rocket Center, and M took her a few weeks ago because she's really into both dinosaurs and outer space right now. (I breathe a sigh of relief every time I realize she's capable of interest in something other than princesses.) Still, we saw a replica of Sue. And her actual skull because it's separate from the rest of her. It weighs SIX HUNDRED POUNDS. That's 3.25 Mr. Ouisers. About 48 of my son. And approximately 10.5 of S. Whoa. We also saw lots of other dinosaurs, and we sang the hungry, hungry herbivore song.

That wasn't the cool part, though. There were two things that utterly blew my mind.

Thing one: do you know how big a moose is?? Do you? Because, those suckers are huge. I always imagined them smaller than a horse...maybe a tall-ish cow. Wrong. They're like passenger vans. M is 6'5", and he was dwarfed. I know that moose aren't supposed to be aggressive, but just stumbling across one in the wild would cause me to drop dead of a heart attack. At minimum I would pass out...where I'd likely then be mauled by a grizzly bear. Either way, running into a moose would be a bad situation for me.

Thing two: ever seen the skeleton of a giant tree sloth? Giant is definitely an appropriate word. I mean, I know all about megafauna, but I underestimated.

Oddly, I overestimated the size of dinosaurs. I was thinking of Godzilla.

After the Field, M rested at the hotel with the kids so I could walk around Michigan Avenue a bit. While I did love my first Crate and Barrel experience, and I was overjoyed to go to the Cubs store, I did not enjoy it. I don't know why I thought I might. I am not a shopper, and I wasn't really tempted to think about shopping because I had a baby recently. I am holding fast to the belief that my body is continuing to change, and I'm not buying clothes for this mass of flesh. Also, I felt like a head of cattle being pushed down the shoot. I hated the feeling so much that when I walked back to the hotel, I walked up Rush Street just to avoid the people/cattle. Plus, it was kind of lonely.

Dinner was a disaster that night because S was flat worn out*. She cried as we walked to dinner. M had to carry her and that's no easy task as she's the giant tree sloth of four-year-olds. We bribed her to be good with a sundae from the Ghirardelli cafe, but she even ate that with tears in her eyes.

We went back to the hotel about 630, and S tried to go to bed in her clothes. The poor child literally crawled into bed fully dressed and pulled up the covers. I convinced her to potty and put on some pjs, but the child was dead to the world by 7pm. She slept for 13 hours, and I don't think she moved once.

There you have it, peeps. Day Two. It was kind of a debacle, but the Field Museum was so great that it was totally worth it.

*We came to this realization later: Usually, when a preschooler gets worn out you can pop her into a stroller with a bottle of water and a snack and things are fine. The child can recover. Unfortunately, they don't really make strollers for seven-year-olds, and that's what size my sweet girl is. So, she has to hoof it. Also, her legs are shorter than an adults, so she has to work harder to go the same distance. Of course she was exhausted after a couple of days of walking around Chicago. We should've known better. The rest of you are hereby warned. If your child is still a stroller appropriate age, use one. If your stroller-appropriate-aged child won't fit in a stroller, go to the beach instead of Chicago.

Chicago, Day One

For the record, the first day of our trip went like this: Mr. Ouiser and I went to the dentist. Mr. Ouiser got the good hygienist. I got the sadist. Mr. Ouiser got a haircut. Then we hit the road. We stopped to eat in Bowling Green, and I made the monumental mistake of getting a latte at Starbucks. In case you're wondering, T is not over his aversion to dairy. He blew chunks. We drove to Lebanon, Indiana that day. While we didn't eat dinner there, I wish we had. The cutest little restaurant ever was there. I passed it when I ventured out to buy goggles for S. How I remembered her kickboard and forgot her goggles I'll never know. The whole downtown was cute, and the geographer in me desperately wanted to tool around the town square. I did not. Goggles are paramount. Seriously.

The next morning we made it to Chicago and were blessed with an early check-in. We walked to Pizzeria Uno where I continued the assault on my son's digestive system by partaking of the scrumptious deep dish.

Then we headed to American Girl Place. Part of the reason that we chose to visit Chicago was a desire to take S to this store. It's like Disney. She was in heaven from the second we walked through the revolving doors. Of course, nineteen seconds in, the camera battery died. M dutifully found an outlet and proceeded to sit down with T for two hours while we stole power from American Girl. I think we paid them back, though. S got a new doll. She shocked me by choosing one of the My American Girl dolls instead of Kanani, who she has been obsessed with via catalog. What seemed like a hundred years later, she and I went to tea. It is one of my favorite memories of vacation. Her new doll, Skating Mahoney*, and her Bitty Baby doll, Mary*, were seated on either side of her. She had pink lemonade in a tea cup. I had forty-three cups of coffee. We had lots of goodies. Scones. Fruit. Tea sandwiches. Strawberry Mousse. Chocolate and sprinkle covered marshmallows. And we played "Table Topics." I wouldn't trade that tea date with my girl for anything. I think I'll remember it forever, and I hope that she will.

After that we headed back to the hotel. S showed off her wicked swimming moves. T froze. Then we went to bed. It was a very good day.

*Skating Mahoney is truly what my daughter named her doll. Originally, she called her Skating Melissa. Then she called her Sarah. Then Skating Mahoney stuck like glue. Mahoney is the name of Natalie Portman's character in Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium. The "Skating" part is because she chose an ice skating outfit for the doll. Mary is named after the mother of Jesus. She got her at Christmas and was mildly obsessed with the Virgin Mary at the time. You cannot make this stuff up, people. My life is an absolute riot.

an argument for karma.

The Ouisers just spent a few days in the Windy City. Let's start with that. Why I thought a few days in a large city with an overly dramatic four-year-old and an eleven week old was a good idea for a mini holiday, I'll never know. It was a little crazy, but all-in-all, there were some great memories made. I'll likely use the next several days to tell the full story, but I'll start with how our trip proved that there is such a thing as good karma.

I'd like to think that I stack the karma deck in our favor on a regular basis. I let people in the grocery line go ahead of me if they've got a handful of things and I've got enough fruit to feed a small army. I let people out in traffic. I tell people when the tag is sticking out of their shirt or when their baby drops something. Little things, you know.

It was all worth it in Chicago.

Friday, we went to the Field Museum. We grabbed a taxi at our hotel, threw the stroller in the trunk, and started on our adventure. I'm not going to lie. Putting S and T into a cab on a busy street was a little frantic. Getting out of the taxi was more frantic as we didn't want S straying into oncoming traffic. While I paid the bill, M grabbed the stroller and tried to get the kids situated. Here's where karma took care of us.

I got cash for the trip...for little things like cab rides or snacks or coffee. However, for some unknown reason, I chose to pay with a card for this particular ride. Also, I almost never request a receipt because it's a waste of paper in most cases. But I asked for a receipt this time. Then, the credit card thing was acting wonky and taking forever, but I waited instead of saying, "no big deal," and moving on.

Fifteen minutes later, we were in the museum, ready to explore, and Mr. Ouiser made a pit stop. While I waited with the kids, T started fussing, so I decided to put him in the Baby Bjorn, which was packed in the basket under the stroller. Only it wasn't there anymore. Nor were M's or S's raincoats. Or my emergency bag of tylenol/bandaids/benadryl/hand sanitizer. Or diapers. Or wipes. The only thing there was my raincoat.

Please note the obviously empty stroller basket. Oops.

I very quickly realized that everything had fallen out of the stroller when it was put into the trunk of the taxi, and in our craziness, we hadn't noticed.

Hello, karma. I had a receipt with the cab company's name and the cab number we'd just ridden in. I called, and the very nice taxi driver returned our stuff to the museum within twenty minutes. Normally, I wouldn't have had the receipt with all that glorious information. And our stuff would've been long gone.

To restock the karma deck, I promptly offered to take a family photo for some people standing outside the museum who were doing the mom-and-kid then dad-and-kid photo rotation that we know all too well.

Later that night, when we were headed to dinner, we decided not to take the stroller...to just carry the baby. M took the stroller back to our room, where he found the door hadn't closed all the way, so all of our stuff was just there, waiting to be stolen. Karma knew that door was open, and she sent M the brainwave that said, "You don't want to push the stroller right now, take it back to room 1204."

On Saturday, karma saved our tails again. S had slept with her baby doll, Mary*, on Thursday evening. Things were so nuts on Friday that she never wanted to play with Mary, but when I got ready to pack things up on Saturday morning, I realized that Mary was missing. She wasn't in any of the drawers or the closet. She wasn't in a bag or a box. She was nowhere. I asked S if she'd seen her, but she answered, "No. She's probably playing hide and seek."

Crap.

I called the front desk, and they transferred me to housekeeping. Mary had been carried away with the laundry, and the glorious staff of the Omni Hotel put her aside, waiting for a sad little girl to realize her doll was missing. When the concierge brought her to us, he even played along with the idea that Mary was playing hide and seek.

So, seriously. Stack the karma deck. Do it regularly.

happy father's day.

To celebrate Father's Day, we hosted a little event last night. We had friends over for what I'll now call The Amazing-It's-Not-A-Race Father's Day Scavenger Hunt Thing. Confused? Don't be. It was just a scavenger hunt where you had to both find things and do things. And it wasn't a race. Because races have winners, and subsequently, they have losers. And two of the four children involved are more than somewhat dramatic and competitive. One of those children belongs to me, and the other is S's BFF. Those two...wow.

Anyway, it was loads of fun. Each of the kids got to choose their team name and team colors. There were shirts. The kids got to decorate trophies for their dads. Really, if it hadn't been for the staggering display of tears by S, the night would've been perfect.

We grilled steak and chicken, and neither were overcooked. So, that's a win.

Here are some photos. I can only hope that all you dads out there have as much fun as Mr. Ouiser had this Father's Day...and that all you dads are good enough sports that if your daughter ever chooses to make your team name "Unicorn Princesses" and your team color pink, that you'll play along.

All the teams...ready to roll.

Task: find a stick as long as your arm. Or a stick as long as your child. Whatever.

Task: take a picture of a duck. Or a fake duck.

Task: Eat a french fry. Or an entire order of french fries that had to come from Wendy's despite the fact that it is across town.

Task: Sing a song on a stage. Otherwise titled: Convince your daughter that the playground counts as a stage because the stage she wanted to go to is occupied and the stage your wife suggested is somehow inadequate in the eyes of said daughter.

Task: Run or Walk a Lap. Pouting optional.

The men with their trophies.

ick continues.

After the oat bran debacle this morning, my toast and turkey sausage seemed like heaven.

Then I had lunch.

Unfortunately, when I made a batch of balsamic vinaigrette* last week, I clearly added too much dijon. I didn't notice it when I used the dressing when it was brand spankin' new, but man (!) that stuff is mustard-y today. And I don't like mustard. This of course begs the question: Why, Ouiser, do you add dijon to your vinaigrette if you don't like mustard?

Because you're supposed to. At least that's what I'm told.

So, if you're keeping score, I'm 0-for-2 today in the meals department. And frankly, I'm going to be batting .000 for the day because Mr. Ouiser won't be home from Ohio at dinnertime, so S will be eating the leftover ravioli that I made her last night, and there is nothing else in the fridge because it's grocery night. I suppose I can throw something together with eggs. I do have some of those.

I also have a screaming baby.

*If you make your own dressings, (why wouldn't you?) you really should get one of these. It actually emulsifies your concoctions. It's fabulous. It'll change your life. Also get a cherry pitter. It'll change your life even more. I couldn't live without either of them. In case you were wondering.

ick.

The low sugar experiment continues. Honestly, I feel good. But this morning's breakfast is not so good. Heather had some oat bran cooked with blueberries the other day, and I was intrigued, so this morning, I made some oat bran and stirred in a handful of blueberries. Of course, Heather had also mentioned said oat bran in a post about lemon-blueberry stuff, so naturally, I squeezed some lemon juice into the blueberry lemon oatmeal. And I put a teaspoon of soy-free vegan butter in there for good measure. Sounds pretty good.

Alas, it is not.

Thus, despite the fact that I'm ravenous, I am blogging instead of eating my breakfast. I think I overdid it on the lemon, and I think I'll attempt blueberry oat bran another day, but maybe with butter and cinnamon next time. Maybe.

For now, I am going to nuke some frozen turkey sausage and make a piece of whole wheat toast because there is no way I am going to force myself to eat what's in the bowl in front of me.

three things.

Thing one: I love insurance. I do. It enables me to be sick and not broke. However, it is a pain in the rear. I'm currently on the phone trying to sort out a claim from T's initial well-child visit. It's hard to get answers from an automaton.

Thing two: If you eat protein at every meal (even just a little) you will almost never be hungry. I have learned this from my no/low-sugar diet. Amazingly when I'm not craving sugar, I'm not craving anything. I have to remind myself to eat because I have to eat to make milk, and T needs the super milk. Try it out. Today I had some leftover chicken (about 1.5 ounces) on a whole wheat tortilla with corn, roasted red pepper, and spinach. And I'm happily full...and I doubt I'll even think about food (other than to blog about it) for hours.

Thing three: I am getting old. Want to know how I know? The people around me are getting older. Take, for example, the junior bridesmaids and flower girl from our wedding. I was going to post a picture, but my scanner is dead as a doornail. So trust me. The oldest was 14 when M and I tied the knot. Two others were 12, one was 11, and the youngest was seven.

But now? Now Hillary, the oldest, is 20. She just finished her second year of college. Sarah and Abbe are both 18 and have now graduated from high school. Susannah turned 17 yesterday, and she's gearing up for her senior year of high school. And Olivia, my youngest sister, is 14 and starting high school in the fall. So, while simple math can enlighten me to their ages (and to my own, you'd think), it takes seeing these girls all growing up before my eyes to make me feel like a geriatric. I believe I shall get my wish of being an old southern lady sooner than I think. That's how I feel at least. Maybe I'll go by some supportive undergarments to help the transition into my golden years.

I'll leave you with a picture from Sarah's graduation on Saturday. I may be old, but I do not have to act like it.

Please note that Susannah (aka The Short One*, S3, Little Fairy) was very ill. She might want me to explain why this isn't her best photograph. There is no excuse for me.

*Funny how I call her the short one, eh? In comparison, I'd be the tall one, and I'm not quite 5'4". I'm 5'3-3/4". My family is not blessed with immense height. Thank goodness my children seem to take after their father. They may never have to climb grocery shelves for dry goods.

ch-ch-ch-ch-changing.

A few ways my life has changed since April 7th.

• Obviously, I've cut out refined sugars. (in the interest of full disclosure, I ate a TBSP of semisweet mini chocolate chips on my oat bran this morning. it's the first treat-like sugar I've had in over a week. there was also melted almond butter on the oat bran.)
• I only use my towel once before washing it. Yeast thrives in warm, damp places like towels, and I'm not going through all this diflucan/low sugar mess just to wipe yeast back on my body. I will get you, yeast. Fear me!!!
• I don't sleep that much.
• I use all of the available baby nap time to get things done. Since I have an older child, which means that I can't nap when T does, I use my time. Laundry. Cleaning. And...
• My kitchen prep work gets done early in the day. While T sleeps, I do all the chopping and measuring for dinner ahead of time. I also put water in pots (salted and oiled, if need be) for pasta or rice or quinoa or whatever. I get out plates. I try to get the table set.* There is no way I can get this stuff done when he's awake because he's rotten and wants to be held always.
• Yoga. It's happening a lot around these parts, and I feel pretty good.
• I shower at night. Three reasons: my hair looks better "slept on," the baby's sleep is erratic and I can't relax in the shower if I think he might be screaming and S might be smothering him with a pillow, and it helps me relax at the end of the evening.
• I run the dishwasher immediately after dinner, and I empty it before I go to bed. Not having to do it in the morning makes my mornings significantly better. Significantly.
• I shop for groceries at night. I am not brave enough yet to take two children to the grocery store. Especially when one is an unpredictable wee one and the other is whiny and asks for one of everything she sees. I wait until they're asleep, and I go alone. It is magical. If you regularly shop with a kid in tow, I highly recommend trying it out.
• I don't blog very much. Like I said, I have to use all the minutes in the day to keep this place running smoothly because I do not want to lower my standards unless I have to.

*I was unable to set the table yesterday because S had set up a fruit stand. There is still a sign taped to the table. Also, she asked me today if the cherries I gave her came from the farm where we get produce when we can. Then she asked me if they were in season. She picks up on a lot. I heart her. So, so much. Even though I want to strangle her with a spaghetti noodle sometimes. Most of the time. Whatever.

an exchange between the Ouiser women.

S got in trouble for not listening this morning. It wasn't anything big at all. I went into the basement to start some laundry, and she asked to come with me. I told her no...that I would be right back and that she could come with me when I put the laundry into the dryer. She came downstairs anyway. When I asked her what the consequence should be for disobeying, she said, "maybe I can never come back into the basement ever, ever again." I said no to that one because she might remember it when she's 15 and I want her to help with the laundry. I told her that the consequence would be that she couldn't have any sweet treats today. Usually she gets one sweet thing per day. Graham crackers. A popsicle. Ice cream. A piece of chocolate for dessert.

Fast forward to five minutes ago. It's rest time, so she's hanging out in the big chair watching Clifford.

Little Ouiser: "Mom, can I have a popsicle?"

Ouiser (while eating a banana): "No. Remember when you didn't listen to me this morning? No sweet treats today."

Little Ouiser: "Oh, yeah. Well, can I have a banana? It's not a treat."

Ouiser: "All food is a treat.*"

Little Ouiser: "Not tomatoes."

End Scene.

I guess the girl doesn't like tomatoes.

*This was a pathetic attempt to teach her that food, while a necessity, shouldn't be taken for granted. Especially not the super good stuff that she gets. There are people all over the world who would think that getting a fresh banana everyday was the absolute bee's knees. No lesson was taught, however, because she threw me for a loop with the tomato comment. All I wanted to do was laugh.

excellent.

Remember that Barbie City that S and I made out of cardboard last week? Well, it's turned out to be a pretty awesome idea. Here's why. For starters, (after I drew the parts of the city that she requested...a road, a palace, a playground, a church, and houses) we had to color it. And that took awhile. Then she played with her Barbies on the city. Between the coloring and the playing, a whole afternoon was taken care of. Also, the city is almost exactly the length of our sofa, so when she's not playing with it, I can slide it between the sofa and the table that sits behind it. She can get it out again on her own when she wants to play with it. Being able to get it out and play with it has eaten up loads of half-hour increments since we made it.

Then I had an idea the other day when T was fussy and I needed to make dinner and wanted S out from under my feet for half an hour. I grabbed the empty Cheerios (regular, not Honey Nut!) box and cut it into a few pieces. I drew a dog house and a tree with a swing on one piece, a car on another, and a school bus on another. I gave them to S, and she sat down for my much-needed half an hour and colored them. Then she taped them to the city because tape is her life right now. She tapes everything. Now I know that I can add to the city with box board anytime we want.

Today, I grabbed the animal pictures that I've been cutting out since she was born*, and she sat down and added animals and a zoo to the city. Boom. Another half an hour gone, and the girl was happy.

The whole point is this: if you're the mama of a small child, give that kid some cardboard and make a city. It can be a Barbie city or a Princess city or GI Joe's base or Gotham City. It doesn't matter. It will occupy children. Go forth and draw and thank me later.

*Before I recycle our magazines, I regularly cut out interesting pictures of people, animals, places, plants, and foods. Then I sort them because I'm me, and I stash them in plastic bags. When S needs something to do, I can break out a bag and a glue stick, and she has something to do. Viola. Again, you can thank me later. Apparently, I'm a mom genius today. Not really.

_____

Unrelated to kiddo craft time. I went back to the doctor today. I woke up so hot I couldn't stand it, and the scanning thermometer that we have wouldn't even work on me because I was sweating profusely. (Sexy, no?) I called Mr. Ouiser, who wasn't out of town yet on his morning commute (it was 545am by the way). I felt way, way wrong. He came home. By the time he arrived about eight minutes later, I was so cold that I was shivering. I went back to bed. While I never got so hot as to cause concern again, my body temp was fluctuating like crazy, so I just decided to go to the doctor. It could've been sugar withdrawals. It could've been hormones. It could've been something related to yeast that I know nothing about. It could've been something else entirely, and I decided that the time to consult Dr. Google was over and that I should talk to an actual medical professional. Now, I've got a couple of doses of Diflucan, and I'm hoping that it'll knock this out. I'll keep up with the ultra-low sugar thing, but I feel like I can relax about it a little bit. As in, I don't have to freak out completely when I read that a banana has 12 grams of sugar. You're welcome for the update.

hooked.

TJ Hooker.

Hook 'em, Horns.

Hooked on Phonics.

Hooked.

Really, hooked on sugar. Oy.

All you mamas out there are probably familiar with thrush. I only ever knew about it in babies, but apparently mamas can get it, too. This mama got it. I got it bad*. If mama gets it, it's referred to as a yeast overgrowth, not as thrush. I prefer to call it thrush, though, because saying I have a yeast overgrowth makes me think of horrid Vagisil commercials, and that is emphatically not a problem that I've got.

Anyway, I was having some pain nursing since just after T was born, but it took awhile for the discomfort to be bad enough for me to start paying attention to it. Then it became actually painful. Then I started having pains really deep inside my chest. Then I started feeling like my breasts were filled with broken glass every time we nursed. Then I took to Google. I'd heard the phrase "broken glass" in reference to nursing before, and it's one of those things that Google automatically figures out for you. The blessed internet told me I had a yeast overgrowth.

Of course I figured that out when I was in quite a state of discomfort, which was, inevitably, a Sunday. Luckily, Drew's girlfriend works at an Urgent Care Clinic, and she was working that day, so I went a-visitin'. Most internet sites will tell you that you need Diflucan, but you don't need the same dosage that you need if your yeast problem is the typical "lady variety." You need a stronger loading dose, then 13 days of the regular dose (the regular dose is one dose, one time). I walked away with a prescription for the regular dose, but I didn't realize it until I picked up the prescription. I took it anyway, and I called my OBGYN the next morning. He thought the one dose should take care of me, but I was to call him back if I needed another dose. Which I did. He called me in another dose on Wednesday, and between the two rounds of Diflucan, copious amounts of Vitamin C, and loads of acidophilus, I seemed to be better. But it came back, which is apparently the reason most people need to keep up the Diflucan for two weeks. Yeast is a beast. You can fight it back, but it keeps growing. Like yeast.

I don't want more Diflucan if I can help it. Especially since it's not nearly as bad this time, so I'm hoping the yeast isn't so prolific. I'm trying a more natural approach. This has included a lot of research.

Yeast feeds on sugar, which as a bread baker extraordinaire, I know. That means that the yeast in my body (and your body) feeds on any sugar consumed. Therefore, I am now trying to eliminate most sugar from my diet. I say most because really eliminating sugar from my diet is rather impossible right now. I can't eliminate carbs and all fruits while I'm also eliminating dairy, soy, peanuts, and "gassy" vegetables. I'd be walking around gnawing on chicken legs and hunks of meat all the time. I am, however, trying harder than usual to stick to whole foods, and I'm steering clear of things that clearly have added sugar.

This isn't so bad. Really. But I've been doing this since Thursday, and I've had a couple of moments wherein I would've murdered a person for one sip of Coke. One sip.

What I have figured out, however, is that I have a little sugar problem, and frankly, you probably do, too. I'm hooked, and I didn't even realize it. I knew I craved fountain drinks sometimes, and I've always loved carbs, but wow.

Did you know that the RDA for sugar for a woman is 25 grams (about 6 teaspoons)? Did you know that one TBSP of French Vanilla creamer has SIX GRAMS? Did you know that if you, like me, use at least 2-1/2 TSBP of creamer in your morning cup that you've already had over half of that allowance before you even lift a fork to your lips? Forget about a second cup. Now I'm measuring my coffee creamer.

It's ridiculous really. The amount of sugar that we eat/drink. It's in everything. Granted, some of those sugars are naturally occurring. Like the sugar in fruits and vegetables. Or the sugar in milk. But, those Special K fruit crisps? Those suckers have added sugar. Seven grams of it. A little under 1/3 of your RDA. Honey Nut Cheerios have 9 grams in a 3/4 cup serving. Basically, you can take care of your daily sugar intake easily before you step out your front door. Check it out.

I've always been pretty maniacal about the things we eat, but I've always just glanced at nutrition labels. Now that I'm looking, I realize that S must walk around in a sugar coma most of the time. M probably does, too, because he believes in juice (to the tune of at least double his RDA.)

The amazing thing about this sugar revelation is that I'm a person who already thinks about stuff like this. My family eats a comparatively small amount of processed stuff. I cook a lot. With real ingredients. If we lived on things like fruit crisps, I can't imagine how high our sugar intake would be.

Seriously, look into it. Spend ten minutes looking into how much sugar you consume and what it can do to your body. It'll blow your mind. And I'm not really advocating that everyone run out and try to eliminate sugar from their diets, but even trying to stay within your RDA is probably cutting back for most people. If you drink French Vanilla creamer, that is.

Now, I'm getting off my soap box...or my sugar canister. I need to go marinate some chicken for dinner because there's meat in our lives these days.

*It's common in mothers who were given antibiotics in the hospital, which I was because we didn't have the results from my group b strep test...if you find yourself in this situation, take some probiotics to keep all the lovely flora in your intestines from being annihilated and causing this problem.

trucking along.

I'd love to say that I've been too busy to blog, but I don't know if you can qualify my recent activity as busy. We don't ever seem to stop, but nothing really gets done, and that's alright. I think.

I don't really have time to post right now because my darling four-year-old and I are working on a project, and I probably have about twelve seconds before she realizes that I've stolen away. I'm just here to share a few pictures...

I'm sure I'll be able to use my words again someday...maybe about the time that T starts using his.

S...ready for the last day of preschool...BEACH PARTY!!

T and Uncle Drew at preschool graduation.

Ms. 'retta gives S her diploma. Please note the dress she is wearing was mid-calf last July when she got it.

S and T with Great Grandma.

My sweet Abbe Grace (the tall one) graduated Friday night from DCHS. I cried.

The men in my life. I'm sure you see the resemblance.

This is what S and I are up to this afternoon. I saved all the cardboard from our new storm doors. This piece has become a city for Barbies. Complete with pool.

The aerial shot.

some observations

Observations about baby T:

• He's growing like a weed. He looks chubby...compared to how he looked a month ago. I might have to stop calling him the following nicknames: The Shrimp, Shrimp Toast, Shrimp Biscuit, Mommy's Little Shrimp Cocktail. To prove that he's growing, we weighed him at the coffee shop last Wednesday. To see pictures you'll have to get on Facebook and like House Blend. I could post the picture, but I want HB to have loads of Facebook fans.
• His tummy seems to be doing better. I think it's more a combination of milk overload and my having a little thrush issue. Yikes. However, I don't think that I'll have to eat nothing but plain potatoes for the rest of my natural life. Hooray!
• He's sleeping in his bouncy seat now, and he seems to be sleeping better. Or maybe I'm just sleeping better.
• I adore him. Adore. Like, I want to lick the kid like a popsicle.

Observations about S:

• She is still an awesome kid, but she gets on my nerves like nobody's business these days. Seriously, was she always so loud?
• She has become the world's most prolific artist. We've got a stack of new art that's an inch and a half tall.
• I caught her "reading" Charlie The Ranch Dog to T yesterday. It was precious. Totally worth all the trouble...
• She is obsessed with these books. We read several chapters every night.

Observations about me:

• There are janitors who don't clean toilets as much as I. Sincerely, I have a problem.
• I might kill a person for cheese. Beware.
• I haven't baked anything in five days, and it's killing me.

no ethanol.

We've got gas problems. Baby T is an awesome baby, but he spits up a lot. And he toots a lot. And he has the hiccups multiple times a day. And when he's especially rooty-tooty-fresh-and-fruity, he's miserable. Arched back. Agonizing face. Legs jerked in and then violently pushed back out. It's wearing me out. S had tummy troubles, too, but I took care of hers by eliminating dairy. No dairy isn't helping T.

So, what gives?

I can't tell if gas drops are helping, but they don't seem to be. I looked up what foods might be offending the little guy's sensitive belly, and here's what I found out. I might want to avoid the following:

• dairy,
• caffeine,
• soy,
• nuts,
• shellfish,
• chocolate,
• citrus,
• wheat,
• chicken,
• beef,
• eggs,
• corn, and
• gassy veggies like broccoli, onions, peppers, and tomatoes.

What, pray tell, am I supposed to eat? Plain rice? Boiled potatoes? Bananas? That's about all I can come up with.

Anyone have any brilliant ideas? This mama is going to need some serious help if I'm going to exist on NOTHING INTERESTING OR TASTY. Somebody help me!

For the record, if anyone says it's colic, I'll scream. It's not colic. He doesn't cry nearly enough to qualify it as colic. And as soon as his little gas fits pass (no pun intended), he's fine. Plus, I totally drank the Harvey Karp Kool-Aid, and I don't believe that he could have colic this early...especially as a preemie.

I am about to read up a bit on hyperlactation syndrome. And I'm going to hope that's not the problem.

making the bed.

You know, I have a newborn. Having the newborn made me insanely nervous about how I was going to get things done...things like getting S to preschool on time. Things like laundry. Now that we're almost three weeks into it, I realize that doing those things with a newborn isn't really the problem. Newborns sleep. A lot. And they're portable. A year from now...when T is mobile. Things will be harder then. For now, I should probably just be grateful that a lack of sleep is my biggest obstacle, and we're not really doing so shabby in that department. Other people have it loads worse than I.

That being said, here's what's happening around here. I am desperately trying to get the bed made everyday. Just to feel normal. I'm trying to stay on top of the laundry, but I'm also trying not to do that thing where I decide that every scrap of fabric in the house must be clean at once. Unless there is an emergency involving a stain, I am limiting myself to one load of laundry per day. And since T doesn't fit into his cloth diapers yet, that leaves me a couple of laundry free days a week. We don't go through that many clothes. Yet. We're getting back into the groove of eating dinner as a family. At the table. Like real people. S's bedtime routine has changed in the sense that she generally only gets one parent upstairs. Before baby T came along, her evening routine was a family affair. We'd all sit in her room to read together. We haven't made that work yet, and we might not, but she is still getting the same routine...even if the cast of characters is decidedly smaller.

Beyond that, I'm keeping the house picked up, but I've really backed off on needing things to be really clean. It'll come together someday, but for now I'm cutting myself some slack.

On a more interesting note, S is running around this morning saying, "Guten tag." I don't know where she learned it, but it's cracking me up.

Here are your pictures for the day.

S, who is apparently ready for her close up.

T, the future opera star.

just for kicks.

T wanted to let you know something...

"I've got a mess in my diaper. It's about this big."

"I'm going to let my mommy sleep about this much tonight."

"The Easter Bunny brought S candy. All I got was a stupid rabbit. That's about this fair."

Really, we could keep going with this all day, but I won't. Because I really am going to get just that much sleep, and I need to rest.

what??

My son is two weeks old today. I am not certain that's truly possible, so I'm going to act like it's a bizarre dream...that he's really still only a few days old. And until I can make it true by sheer force of will, I'm going to hide under the covers and eat my weight in chocolate.

That is all.