Can you find it?

Now, let me start this with the fact that I am a big Eric Carle fan. Charlotte loves Brown Bear, Brown Bear, Polar Bear, Polar Bear, and all the others. She knows all the words to The Very Hungry Caterpillar: "he was sill HUNG-EE."

Her new favorite is Mister Seahorse. We read it at least three times a day. While I like the overall message of this book - that fathers play a huge part in biologically taking care of their young in other species, and that daddies are more than capable of parental duties, see if you can spot what my issue with this passage is:

(click to enlarge if neeeded)

Cue Jeopardy Music.

Oh, there you are!

Hello round ligament pain! I've been wondering when you would show up. It's so nice to see you again. I love how you take my breath away with stabbing pains when I reach for something or switch positions. I especially love the feeling of my hips actually separating from my pelvis in the middle of the night during a nekkid David Boreanz dream. I've missed you these last two years, and are glad you're back. I mean, I was feeling so good: more energy, better eating habits, less hormonal flip-the-shits. But then you come back to remind me that yes, I am in fact, very pregnant. For this, I thank you.

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Oh, incubator hellfire, you sneaky devil, you! My OB gave me permission to take Pepcid, and at first it seemed to be working wonders. But, you've found a way to work your magic around such nonsensical things as conventional medicine. Tums were laughable foes. Hell, you even flare up with a glass of water. My favorite orange juice in the morning? Who needs the Vitamin C? I'd much rather have a fire in my chest and a searing pain in the back of my throat!

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Welcome back irrational fear! I thought I had lost you for a while. I had made it to the magic 13-week mark and was feeling pretty confident. Then I could feel Sawyer move inside me and was comforted by his tiny kicks and hiccups. But, now that I'm at 24 weeks, you came back to me! We can now sit and revel in thoughts like "What if my water breaks now?" What if I am in a car accident and they can't tell I'm pregnant and give me medicine that hurts the baby?" "What if my blood pressure rises more?" "What if I fall down the stairs again like I did last time at 33 weeks with Charlotte?" "What if that Braxton Hicks was premature labor?" Really, I'm glad you're here again, because I was getting too comfortable in my sanity. Thanks for keeping me on my feet.

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Hey there, swollen feet and ankles! Mike lovingly refers to you as my "hot dog toes" because at the end of a long weekend, my little toes look like mini-wieners, waiting to be wrapped in a crescent roll and baked into pigs in a blanket. I also am enjoying having to buy new shoes because all of current ones I own feel too narrow. I mean, the selection of wide flats for big girls like me (size 11) are really fierce. If I wanted to, I think I could kick any granny's ass in the Sexiest Orthopedic Shoe competition. I mean, some of the flats out there are sex-ay! Because, let's face it, heels are reserved only for special occasions when I know I will only be on my feet for say, 27 seconds at a time, and you've now insisted I wear flats or sneakers at all times! Thanks for making me so fashion forward!

My peeps

Ok, I spent the good part of Charlotte's naptime redoing my blogroll (and adding a cool photo thing on the right sidebar).

If you'd like to be added, let me know. I tried to get everyone, but I'm pregnant and blond, and can't be trusted to put groceries away, let alone remember everyone!

Just a quick note

Spring,

Hurry the eff up.

Signed,
The family who has been stuck inside for the last five months.

New design...

As some of you may have already noticed, I'm in the process of getting the new design up and running. I realize the font of the posts is a wee bit small, so I'm working on it.

I'd like to thank Jess at Delicious Design Studios for the design, html, and installation! She did a great job and was fabulous to work with!

I'm also going to start responding to the comments in the comment section itself, so if you leave me a question or a comment that warrants my response (yes, usually of the "anonymous" variety), I'll answer there if I don't have your email. You can click "subscribe to comments" and you will get them in an email rather than having to check back.

Do you like it? Any suggestions? Any widgets you think I should add? I'll be working on some tweaks all weekend so if it looks weird, I apologize.

Do you?

Mike and I watch Ghosthunters and Destination Truth every week. We've tried other paranormal shows, which end up just being laughable. Like I'm going to take a group of college students with a tape recorder seriously? If you're not old enough to know who Journey is, I don't trust you to find a ghost. Sometimes I catch "A Haunting" on Discovery and am always interested in those people's stories - they seem so sure that they were tortured by dead spirits.

But, the thing is you see, I don't believe in ghosts. Not one iota. I don't know why I like these shows so much. I've even seen evidence on tape on some of these shows and just don't believe it. I always find there can be some explanation or another, scientifically. Even when family members who are far from cuckoo tell me personal experiences and stories, I just don't believe it. It's not that I think they're lying - I truly believe them when they think they saw something. Hell, maybe they did, but I don't think they saw a "ghost." Because to me, the human brain has such an endless amount of things we don't know about it, parts that are unused. How can we say that electric fluctuations in a part of the brain isn't causing these visions, smells, sounds? You can have electric issues with your heart, nerve twitches in your leg, etc., so why do we discount that we can have "brain twitches?"

I know I've been watching Stargate too much when Mike asks me how I can explain the latest finding of a picture frame moving on its own caught on tape on Ghosthunters and I answer: "Maybe it's another dimension that, for that moment of time, was slightly out of phase with ours." or "Maybe it's a race of aliens that is so advanced, they need no tangible form." It's official. I'm a dork.

I'd really like to believe in ghosts, because then I'd have a reason to think that after I leave this world, there is something. Maybe it's not the heaven and hell we are taught to conceptualize, but it would prove to me that there is something. That we don't simply cease to exist. Which, truthfully, really bums me out to think about. I'd love to have a personal experience, but I have a feeling even if I did, I'd rationalize it.

What do you think about ghosts? Do you believe in them?

Moments

Late at night, after we've put the baby down, cleaned up dinner, folded the laundry, watched some meaningless TV, checked our blogs, and lie next to each other in the dark, Mike and I talk until we fall asleep.

Recently, this routine has included Mike lying his hand across my belly, feeling his son squirm and kick inside me. Sometimes he'll poke my belly, provoking a kick back in the same spot.

I love these moments. I think what a wonderful husband I have whose company I truly enjoy, what a great father he is, and what a good man he is going to raise when we have our new son in a few months.

And then, inside, I think:

HOLY HELL ON A STICK, WE'RE GOING TO HAVE ANOTHER BABY! How will we do it? When will we sleep? When will I go back to work? We're gonna have two babies two years apart! What if Charlotte pokes his eyes out? What were we thinking!?! Can we sell him on ebay? No, that didn't work for the Chinese family in that news story. I'll just drink.* Yes, vodka! That is the answer. No. Other people do it. Hell, other people have five, six, seven babies! They survive. They raise good kids. If they can do it, so can I! No. I can't. I can't do this. I can barely do it now. Some days I can't hold it all together and want to jump on a plane to Fiji. Yes I can. We can do this. I love my little family. I can't wait for this new baby who I already love so much. I am so lucky and so happy. I am woman! I am a good mother and a good wife. I can do it. WE can do it. No, I can't. Yes, I can. No. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.


*Note: I have no intention of actually drinking. Much.

Random Crap Thursday

I have a lot of things running around in my head right now, none of which is important enough to warrant a post of its own. So you'll be getting random paragraphs today instead.

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I'm sure most of you heard this story. A woman whose boyfriend just came home from Iraq didn't know she was pregnant and went to the hospital with stomach pains only to deliver a healthy baby. She had irregular periods and had gained some weight. BULL. SHIT. There are a million stories like this and each one I read, I think to myself: BULL. SHIT. Because really, I can understand not "feeling pregnant" because other than a couple of weeks here and there, I really don't feel pregnant this time. I had very little morning sickness, which was gone by week 8. And the exhaustion could be likened to a variety of things - the winter, a virus, working full-time with a toddler, and I could completely see shrugging that off as a symptom. I also know some women (myself included when my PCOS was not diagnosed yet) who get sporadic periods, light bleeding, etc. So I can see THAT being written off. But for the love of Cadbury eggs, people, how can you not FEEL a HUMAN moving INSIDE of you?!!?!? Maybe, just maybe, I could viably understand a person being in such denial that they think the movements are gastro-related. Maybe they are used to having weird stomach issues. Maybe they have a tilted uterus, where most movements can't be felt. But even SO! Don't you think if you felt something weird in your stomach moving for say, I don't know, a FEW MONTHS and it just got stronger, that at least you'd go to the doctor to make sure you weren't DYING!? It just blows my mind. It really does. Either these women are in such a state of denial that their mind actually convinces them they are not pregnant, or....I don't even have an "or", I'm so flabbergasted. There have been days towards the end of my pregnancy with Charlotte where I felt sure a foot was going to rupture my lungs. I just don't get it.

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I'm cold all the time. I sleep with an electric blanket, I wear socks and hoodies around the house. I won't be outside for more than 30 seconds (the time it takes to walk from the house to the car to the store to my office, etc.). I even have a slanket to wear when I'm working at home, playing video games, or writing, while needing to be warm. What's that? You don't know what a slanket is? Only the BEST invention for whiners like myself - a blanket with sleeves! I can stay completely covered and still have my hands and arms free. Woot.

(Yeah, wouldn't I love to be this relaxed? In my house, there's a toddler on my head, yelling "PAH-CORN! Pah-corn NOW Momma!")

Anyway, so while I'm normally cold all the time and in search of ways to stay warm, when I actually do get worked up and warm, I am sweating like a PIG! (Ok, I know pigs don't sweat and that's why they roll in mud. Humor me.) I mean, I tend to run around at work all day long and on Monday, I was soaked! Like embarrassingly soaked enough to want to put on my jacket to cover my wet pits! I was wearing a light blue shirt so the sweat made it dark blue and it was so GROSS - like the creepy guy at a bar with no concept of personal space and you can see his pit sweat - GAH! Help! This is new this pregnancy. Why am I sweating like a linebacker when all I am doing is walking from my desk to other offices, the cafeteria, etc.? And the other times, I'm cold? Luckily, I don't seem to smell as I sweat. I checked several times and made my coworker smell me (we're homies like that), but STILL - how gross. (You can now sleep better knowing this about me, I just know it.)

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No word on the couch yet. I was so tired by the time I got home yesterday that I worried if I drove there to confront them again, I would either cry or sit on them. They said they should have the shipping manifest today or tomorrow so when I hear from them, I'll let you know by typing my anger IN ALL CAPS or happily dreaming of lounging on my 12-foot couch in the near future.

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Kellie's birthday is this week. She's turning twenty-ten. Go read her (she's fricken hysterical) and wish her happy birthday or something.

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My new site is coming soon. Jess at Delicious Designs has been hard at work on it for a couple weeks now, even though she moved during the process. I saw a sneak peek of the new header and it's so damn cute! I can't wait to see it up!!

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That is all for Random Crap Thursday. How is YOUR week going?

As Narcissa promised...

Here are more pictures of my new coif. I realize I'm in the same shirt as when I got my haircut the last time and took pictures from the same self-portrait angle (which makes my nose look incredibly large). Maybe it is my official haircut shirt?

The stink eye:

Er, from behind?

I did it again

The show was really great. I'm exhausted from staying out past bedtime and getting up for work this morning but it was worth it. I wish someone would have told me that once I hit say, 24 a few years ago, that I would be OLD and that functioning on less than six hours of sleep was damn near impossible. I used to be able to drink all night, write papers, work full time, take five classes, and STILL function. Now, I go out for dinner and show and I'm a zombie. When did this happen? When did I get old and my bones get tired? (Note: I am not calling myself, nor anyone older than me "old" - so pluck those panties out of thou crack. I just feel oldER than I did just a few years ago).

After getting my nails done yesterday I walked by my salon. I had a dream a few nights ago (what IS with these pregnancy dreams this time? They are seriously freakadelic this go-round) that I went and got my hair cut and was so upset because it looked like a boycut. But it made me think that though I loved my haircut of a few weeks ago, the huge amount of layers was hard for me to handle. Unless I pinned pieces up and blew dry each layer, the pieces would end up looking frizzy, some would curl under, some would flip out. So nine times out of ten, I would just end up putting it back, kind of defeating the purpose of a nice haircut, right? On a whim, I walked into my salon and asked if anyone was free to cut my hair RIGHT THIS MINUTE BEFORE I CHANGE MY MIND. Clearly I had lost my marbles. 1) I was getting a haircut on a whim (a pregnant, very hormonal whim I'm sure) and 2) I was going to let a random person cut my hair, nit my usual hair girl who was off that day. WAS I INSANE?!!?!? But, the girl and I sat and looked through books and I explained what I wanted:

• No boy cuts.
  
• Shorter but not too short.
  
• Something I can run a blow dryer over and be done in 4.2 minutes because that's all I have.
• Something that doesn't make me look too mom-ish.
• Something that makes me long young and hip without trying to overdo the looking-young-and-hip thing, when clearly I'm not because I have peanut butter on my shirt, and cat hair on my pants.

And I left totally happy, even if I had to waddle out, because it's official: the waddling has begun. Unfortunately, I forgot to take my weekly picture until I got home at 11 pm (and the hair had deflated), so this is the best I've got right now. It doesn't really show how cute it is, so being the narcissistic bastard I am, will post more when I get home from the office today or tomorrow.

(23 weeks)

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Oh, and way to make me fear this whole couch situation is only going to get worse. Not one of you left a story going ,"Oh yes, we had the same problem and we got our couch overnighted and the people were great and it was perfect and the right color and we LOVED it" - Nay, nay. You all gave me the couch horror stories of doom. Your couch will NEVER come! It will be ripped! It will be torn! It will be the wrong color! There will be a family of marmosets living in them! Ok, I made that last one up, but still, could have been possible given the comments you all were leaving! I'm just going to retreat into my diluted little world where, in fact, everything works out for my couch. It will come next week and my ass and it will live happily ever after.

Tonight

We will be seeing him:



How jealous are you? He's going to be at a theater in a nearby city. We actually bought tickets to see him in November but because he was filming his new show for Comedy Central, he postponed his show until tonight. If you don't know who Lewis Black is, watch the video, and love him like I love him.

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Day 3 of the HolyShitMyHusbandMayBeRight Protein Challenge is going well. I made it through a whole day at work yesterday without needing to go outside and jump up and down to get the blood flowing back to my deadass brain. This activity requires I hold my belly so that it doesn't hurt to flop my fetus up and down, making quite a comical show. But, it works when it needs to.

This morning I had another fruit/yogurt/protein shake - this time chocolate with bananas and it was so yummy - and two hours later, I'm still feeling satisfied and energized.

Part of me is so tempted to lie around acting lethargic because it seems a much better option that continually admitting Mike was right about something. Thankfully, he is not gloating, as he is most likely aware this may end in immediate termination of "marital duties."

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Charlotte and I are hunkered down in the basement watching Nemo for the 900th time because Mr. Home Depot Man is upstairs installing our new door and even though it is almost April, it is still witches'-titty-cold outside and our living room feels like an ice box. So we have our new hardwood blinds, and by today, we'll have our new door. We ordered our couch on February 2nd and they told us it would take 6-8 weeks. If you can look at any calendar or do simple math, you will realize that this is the 8th week and no fricken couch. Mike stopped by the furniture store yesterday and asked them about it. Best part? They had no updates in their records at all - no shipping date, no notes from the warehouse, nothing. They are supposed to call us today with a status, and if I don't like what they have to say, they better be ready for a big ol' can of pregnant this:

Don't you hate it when your spouse is right?

I'm always right. Or so I'd like to think. I am awesome at trivia, not because I am smart but because I have an endless capacity to recall seemingly useless details about crap. I store these tidbits of information in the recesses of my brain and pull them out when it matters most - to crush an opponent at Jeopardy or Trivial Pursuit. Mike says to me "You can't always be right." To which I reply "I can so. Eat me." However, in one instance, I have to admit, maybe I wasn't right...

Mike asked me the other morning what I had for breakfast. When I responded "pound cake and coffee," to which he replied, "No wonder you're tired all the time. All you eat is carbs." It was like a little light went off in my head. What did I have for breakfast the day before? Cereal and toast. The day before that? Rice krispies. Before? A bagel. He was right. I had been starting my day with simple carbohydrates, something my non-pregnant self would kick my current self's ass for if I wasn't, ya know, pregnant. Logically, somewhere in the deep recesses of my foggy brain, I know these kinds of food choices are a bad idea and normally never ever part of my daily nutrition. But I guess when you're pregnant with a toddler, you eat what is within arm's reach that you can shove in your mouth before said toddler flushes another car in the potty. And lately, these have been quick and easy things like leftover dessert, bagels, toast, cereal. No protein at all. And if we're being honest, not enough fluids. It would be lunchtime and I'd realize all I had was a cup of coffee. I am shamed.

So I tried an experiment yesterday. I started my day with a shake with organic vanilla yogurt, fresh strawberries and bananas, and strawberry protein powder. A couple hours later, I had the rest of the banana with some peanut butter on a high-fiber english muffin. For lunch I had a lean cheesebuger on the grill. I also made sure I drank plenty. And ya know what? Though I had my little dip in energy around 2-3 pm as usual, it wasn't the bone-gnawing MustTakeNapNOW kind of tired. My energy from the shake lasted full through lunch, and even though I was in the dark basement working (yes on Sunday. Momma needs to bring home the bacon), I managed to get through the day without crawling into my bed and wishing for a coma if only I could wake up refreshed.

This morning I had egg and cheese with my coffee and am diligently downing my water. And so far, so good. Though the balance in the Great Pregnancy Bank is still only around $1.08, it's still better than the $0.04 of last week.

And though I hate to admit it, maybe, just maybe, Mike was right.

Things my childless self never thought I'd say outloud

• Yes, honey. That man does have boobies.
• Kitty does not like his tail in your oatmeal.
• We do not take our pants off in public.
• It is not nice to hide the green beans in your shirt.
• We do not write on the windows with cheese.
• Great job sitting on the potty! Yes, that IS your pachina.
  
• You do not need another sip of my coffee. You're two.
  
• Babe, can you smell her butt?
• I think your unborn son has his foot in my vagina.
• Let's call out of work and clean!
• You want pound cake for breakfast? Ok, can I at least put berries on it?
  
• Yogurt is NOT for rubbing on kitty!
  
• I need a cream cheese bagel with pepper and bacon RIGHT NOW!
• No, we can't go out on Friday night. We're going to bed early to go to Sesame Street Saturday morning.
  
• Why are there crayons in the refrigerator?
• Please do not lick the floor.
• No, that man does not have a baby in his belly.
  
• Who put a banana in the dishwasher?
• No, just one wine glass, please. I'm not drinking.
• Your stuffed animals cannot swim in the potty!
  
• Swiper, no swiping!
  

Spring? Um, hello?

When Charlotte can't find something, she runs around the house yelling "Daddy/Bippy/Blankie/Shoes, where are YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU?!?!" She drags the "you" out low and deep, and it cracks us up every time she does it.

But now I feel like standing on my back deck, yelling "Spring, where are YOUUUUUUUUUUU?" because seriously, when I put Charlotte down in her room last night, her heater thermostat said 59. Fifty-NINE degrees. In our house! The upstairs is always colder (or hotter depending on the season) and since it was windy as all hell here yesterday, it makes it even worse. The insulation sucks upstairs and the wind just slinks its knobby fingers through the cracks, under doorframes, around windows, and into our bedrooms. So, I sat with her and a pile of blankets, rocking her, while her heater warmed up her room. Then I promptly put my electric blanket on while I got ready for bed, and climbed into a nice toasty bed at 8:30, and passed out by 9:15.

I know things are different when you're pregnant with a child already as opposed to the first time you were pregnant. You were the only person to take care of - well, you and your fetus. You could sleep in, take long naps, etc. I felt great. I felt like I could move mountains because I was woman! I was creating a human! Ha! Take that! But this time, I just can't get the energy level up above the "stumble to the shower" level. I know I'm a busy person, juggling 90 things at once, but usually that's how I thrive. When I'm home, I'm working, cleaning, baking, playing dressup, going to playdates, running errands. When I'm at work, I'm handling three pubications, all with tight deadlines, editing over 4,000 pages a year, sometimes under impossible conditions. I deal with authors from all over the world, and while on the whole most are nice people, I get my occasional unsavory fella. I take on overtime work to help pay down some bills, buy us some nice things that we work hard for - like our new door (which is coming on Tuesday -yay!), set some aside for a backyard playground for the kids. But, this time around, the great deposit in the Pregnance Energy Bank is like $0.04.

Maybe it's this winter that has seemed to last forever, despite it not actually feeling like a real winter. Here on the East Coast, we've had very little snow. So little in fact that my poor kid has never played in it. We've had days range into the 70s in January. It's been a long, weird, winter and I'm ready for it to end. Maybe I need the sunlight, some good ol' Vitamin D to give me the kick in my ass I need. I mean, nothing suffers. I still handle my responsibilities, bake my healthy treats, take good care of my baby, work hard at my job - I just do it slower, in a mental fog, and without any enthusiasm. I feel like someone hit the "slow-motion" button on my life and I just can't get the spring in my step (pun intended) like I used to have - something I feel that so defines me as a person.

We don't celebrate Easter because we are agnostics, so we celebrate the "spring equinox" in our house. Yesterday, Mike bought and made Charlotte and me both spring baskets and gave them to us after dinner. And I'll have you all know, my child does not like Peeps either. Score!

We explain to Charlotte about the bunnies and eggs and how they represent fertility, and teach her the pagan origins of celebrating the spring equinox. She will also learn about Christ and why people celebrate Resurrection Sunday and why it is so important to them. I want her to be as well rounded as possible, learn about all cultures and religions, and form her own opinions. I want her to always be respectful of other's beliefs, even if hers are different, have a never-ending thirst for knowledge for all things, and to question all things.

The start of spring and the Easter holiday means celebrating life, whether it is the resurrection of their Lord or the spring equinox, which so many cultures mark as the renewal of the earth after winter, where life blooms and replenishes. I want to feel spring. I need to feel it.

I am growing a new life inside me, one that will make this earth a better place. One in which his sister already has.

One of those days...

Slept like ass-on-a-stick due to raging gas pains (yeah, you know you needed to know that), had a work inbox full of problems, the milk in my Honey Nut Cherrios had gone bad, I stubbed my toe.

Now I sit here unshowered trying to muddle through my brain fog enough to make some headway in the massive amount of work I have to do, while wishing I had some Cherrios, not having the energy to even clean myself.

When will the fog lift? Why do I feel like I can't concentrate for more than 30 seconds on any given task before wanting to cry because I just can't do it? I want my brain back, but I fear it may be lost forever.

Coining phrases

Since pregnant women are definitely not human, I don't believe that human terms for certain things should be applied to us.

Instance 1: Heartburn. Heartburn my left ass check. Caley and I lovingly refer to this burning-oh-lawdy-my-chest-may-actually-rupture-into-a-conflagration feeling as Incubator Hellfire. I remember this fondly from my pregnancy with Charlotte and the old wives tale that your baby will be born with a head of hair is crap because my poor kid was bald until she was about 10 months. And I mean rub-her-for-good-luck bald. This time, it happened earlier and fiercer. I love my OB for giving me the green light to take Pepcid. When I actually remember to take it a half hour before I eat (how can this work when I eat ALL the time?) it works great!

Instance 2: Insomnia. Hmmmmm. I think of insomnia as people who roam their house, desperate for sleep, but unable to do so. For us, it should have a new term, like "Trampolinia" wherein your fetus feels it necessary to do acrobatics on your bladder just as you are ready to sleep. Or "Pissalotnia" because getting up three times a night to empty said bladder sure is on the list. Or how about "Can't Get Comfortable For Crap Because I have a HUGE Belly and OHMYDOG It's Just Going To Get Bigger-nia."

Instance 3: Hormonal. Hmpf. How about Complety Nutshit? I cry when I watch the news. I get red-faced furious when I drive. I get weepy when I'm tired. I laugh when I shouldn't.

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Other than that, I am feeling pretty good. I can still bend over and shave my own legs. My bikini line on the other hand? Well, I've completely lost sight of that. Hopefully I won't be wearing a bathing suit anytime soon or, you know, EVER.

(22 weeks pregnant with Sawyer)

And for shitsandgiggles, here's 22 weeks from last pregnancy:

(22 weeks pregnant with Charlotte)

Yes, much smaller. A closer comparison to the photos shows that I resemble now, at 22 weeks, where I was around 30 last time. Sweetjeebus, how will I WALK?

(30 weeks pregnant with Charlotte)

Anyone notice how much lower I am carrying this boy? Maybe some old wive's tales are true?

Yet another parenting question

I fully expect Swistle to have a magic answer to this. But I'm hoping you all can weigh on this as well with your thoughts and experiences. It's not as big as potty training or taking away a soother. But it plagues me nonetheless.

Charlotte's new thing is she won't eat yogurt that is not pink. She eats upwards of three yogurts a day (the low sugar kind, no worries) and has been surviving lately on a diet of "ogurt, douda, nanas, eatmeal" and eggs. I suppose it could be worse and her diet could consists of her beloved chocolate or marshmallows. So I make her what she wants and acquiesce when she asks for yet another yogurt.

But lately for some reason, she won't eat the Vanilla or Banana or any other flavors that don't come in the pink variety. Which is a huge waste as you all know yogurt is not cheap. Especially the organic kind. So, I've been putting food coloring in it to make it pink. It works and she eats it, but at what point do I stop catering to her every nuance? When do I just tell her that either she eats it or gets no yogurt? Do I just buy only strawberry?

I think this is part of her personality as she is very picky with certain things. She'll play in the dirt, lick the soles of her shoes, but freaks out of she has a "fuzzy" (anything like lint or cat hair) stuck to her face, fingers, or bippy. She likes to do some things a certain way. For instance, she has slept in the same position in her bed (head wedged in the top left corner of her crib) for as long as she could move on her own. She prefers one color of princess shoes over the next.

I realize I can chock some of it up to normal human preferences, but I also know some kids go with the flow much easier. Am I fostering her "habits" by giving into them? Will I make her more picky and um, slightly neutoric, if I help her make her yogurt pink?

Who'd have thought white yogurt could cause such a stirring in my mommy brain?

O Bippy, O Bippy, wherefore art thou Bippy?

A hybrid of "binky" (our word) and "bopper" (her teacher's), the Bippy is to Charlotte what oxygen is to us.

By the time she could sleep in her crib, I was getting up to put her pacifier back in her mouth in the middle of the night. It was better than a feeding and it helped her sleep 10-12 hours. Eventually, she had the dexterity to put it back in herself, and we lined her crib with them so we could just check the video monitor and know she found it and plugged the cry-hole. Now, as a toddler she seems okay without it unless the following emotions occur: sadness, tiredness, frustration, anger, disappointment, crankiness, fussiness, hunger, thirst, confusion, illness, relaxing, and any sort of whining. Right. Pretty much all the time.

She doesn't want it or ask for it if she's happy or playing in a good mood, which thankfully is more and more often. She tends to be on the dramatic side (what? a child from my loins? dramatic? ha!) and any little thing can set her off. A shoe not in its place. A cat lying on her Dora blanket. Milk instead of water or juice. And the first thing she does when she gets emotional is ask - nay, BEG - for her Bippy.

She's not quite two yet, so reasoning with her is out of the question. Not to mention, even if we did remove it except for naps and bedtime, she'd revert once Sawyer is born anyway. I am prepared for that. I'm not that worried about it now. It's her comfort. Along with two blankets she carries around all day, her Bippy makes her feel safe and calm when something has upset her. And for now, I'm okay with that. I'll be okay with it for some more time, at least until well after the baby is born and I can reason with her when she understands me.

Some people think they're bad for her teeth, and I get looks and the "you'll be paying for braces" or the "isn't she getting too old for that?" comment from the elder generation that thinks that it's their given right to give me advice in all public arenas. I just smile and say that they are made much better now, and there is no proven statistic to it causing any orthodontic problems. Plus, I'd rather her have a binky than suck her thumb, as that can push the teeth forward and is much harder to take away a part of a kid's hand than it is an object.

So, similar to potty training I'm in no rush and am pretty sure she'll tell me when she can handle being without it. I have no intention of taking away such a source of comfort when I know there are rough times ahead for her little toddler emotions. Still, I am left with the sinking feeling that one day, I will have to. I mean, it's not cool to send a kid to kindergarten with a Bippy these days, it is?

Did your baby(ies) use bippies? Do they still use them? How/when did they give them up?

The truth revealed

Seriously people? Only TWO of you got more than one right! My friend Brianne, who I went to high school with but we only reconnected in the past year or so, was one to get two correct. And my new girl crush, Cass, also guessed two correct. No one got all three, though my sister and husband were prohibited from playing.

Here are the answers:

1. I once got lost in Sesame Place by myself when I was 3. After that, my grandmother tied a phone cord around my waist whenever we went out somewhere.

This is TRUE. I somehow wandered away at our church's trip to Sesame Place. I knew to find a police man when I was lost, which I did, but the whole experience scared my grandmother so much that she fashioned "a leash" from a long phone cord with two clips on each end - one for me and one for her. I wore it to every crowded public place until I was six or so. I hated it. Maybe this is why I cringe when I see kids with them now.

2. I got my driver's license on my 17th birthday.

This is TRUE. I was the last of my friends to turn 17 (and 21 for that matter - oh, woe is the girl who sits home in college while everyone else is at a bar) so my mom let me take the day off from school and get my driver's license on the first day I could. (Now NJ is 18, but over 10 years ago, you got your permit at 16 and license at 17).

3. I love mushrooms. My favorites are Portabellas on the grill.

This is FALSE. I'd rather lick a donkey than eat mushrooms. I keep trying to like them and I just can't get past the texture and taste. It reminds me of what it would be like to eat an earth worm - firm yet slimy with a flavor of soil. I just gagged a little. Blech, shiver.

4. I was taken in by campus police for dancing with a wooden spoon on a table in the courtyard of my college apartment.

This is FALSE. Surprising, I know. Though I did perform said action on the table, among many other drunken debacles, I was never taken in by campus police. We were homies.

5. My body does not dissolve dissolvable stitches.

This is TRUE. For some bizarre reason, the types of stitches that should dissolve in ones body, do not do so in mine. I noticed this after foot surgery in 2003 when stitches were pushing through completely healed skin. Despite my warnings to my OB, I had to go in after five weeks and have my "dissolvable stitches" removed from giving birth (yes, that sounds about as fun as it was). Twice since then, doctors have failed to listen and twice I've had to get these stitches removed. Many times, the skin has healed around them and they have to cut the skin back open. Maybe one day, the doctors will listen to me.

6. I love all types of cheese. I've never met a piece of cheese I didn't like.

This is TRUE. I love me some cheese. Which is why it shouldn't surprise me when my toddler asks for "douda and grapes." She also loves The Druken Goat, which is creamy goat cheese that has been aged soaked in red wine, one of my favorites. My kid's got taste.

7. MacGyver was my favorite show growing up.

This is TRUE. I still love this show and watch reruns whenever I can catch them. MacGyver was my first TV crush. I also loved Richard Dean Anderson in Stargate SG-1, one of my favorite series. At 58, I think he's still doable.

8. I used to smoke a pack a day.

This is TRUE. This was the most incorrectly guessed as false. I smoked from age 13-20 and quit cold turkey one day. I guess you all realize how I healthy I try and be and how much I HATE smoke now. Seriously, if someone smokes near me or my baby, I have no qualms with telling them to get their disgusting habit out of my face. I believe people have every right to smoke if they so chose, but if I liked to sniff paint thinner, I wouldn't make you do it as you walked past me to get into a store. I've heard that ex-smokers make the worst non-smokers, and I guess that's fairly true in my case.

9. I am obsessed with Survivor and Big Brother.

This is FALSE. I don't really like reality TV (except American Idol and So You Think You Can Dance).

10. I almost had a 4.0 in college and have three minors.

This is TRUE. I'm a nerd, and despite serious partying, I not only worked a full time job and was the assistant editor of our school newspaper, I got a degree in English Literature with minors in writing, philosophy and linguistics. Two Bs and one C (from Professor Nutty McCrazyPants) in four years kept me from the 4.0. Huge. Nerd.

----

So there you have it. I guess a lot of them were surprises since no one did very well, and even though some of you tried to cheat (I can see what search strings brought you here and somehow "stiches" and "smoking" where big hitters on Friday), no one got them all.

This was fun and I got a kick out of seeing your thoughts. I am pleased no one thought I was a smoker, because I try very hard to take care of my health now. I'm also surprised no one thought my grandmother was nutty enough to attach a phone cord to me in public, especially those of you that know her.

So Brie, what can I get for you? Another trip to the outlets next time you're in town? Cass - any secret recipes you'd like or delictable treats to arrive at your doorstep?

This morning

This morning, Mike got up with Charlotte and took her to his parents for breakfast. I slept in a blissfully quiet house until 9:30. I realize that may not be "sleeping in" to many of you, but to me it's like NOON. I ate some Lucky Charms a healthy breakfast, showered, and went to the mall. All by myself. And ya know what? It was weird.

The only time I am ever alone in the house is on Thursdays, when I drop Charlotte off at her dayhome and I come home and work furiously the entire time she is gone. I'm too busy to notice I'm alone. I get more of my work done in those 7 hours than I do any day in the office. It's crazy how much work you can get done without people at your desk every five minutes.

So to be in my house, alone, on a weekend was just weird. I knew I should be enjoying it, cranking the music, taking a long hot shower, dancing around in my nakedness, giant belly bouncing, but I couldn't. I sat in silence, read my email and blogs, got ready and left the house. I drove the whole way to the mall without looking back once to make sure Charlotte wasn't licking her shoes. I walked into stores and perused and took my time, tried things on, smelled perfumes, all without having to chase a toddler or try and placate her in a stroller with promises of "nemmy nemmies." I wasn't rushed, trying to get what I needed before a nuclear meldown of epic proportions ensued. I leisurely browsed windows and thought "I will fit in that again one day."

I am alone a lot - on my morning commute, when I'm out with friends, or when I go to the store shopping on my own other times - but this was different. I didn't have to get up early with the hustle and bustle of getting everyone dressed, fed, and out of the house by 7 am. I wasn't meeting a bunch of women to hang out with, or going to a company with 900 other people. I was all alone.

And I honestly didn't like it.

Lies/Truth

I'm stealing an idea from Sci-Fi Dad, who stole the idea from other bloggers, who borrowed that idea from other bloggers - no one knows where it originated. I'm going to give you ten statements. Three are false and the rest are true. I'm not sure what to offer the winner. My skills are fairly limited to: baking, shopping, editing, listening to music, and some photoshopping. So if you need muffins/cookies, I will bake and mail you some. Need a letter edited? I'm your chick. Wanna go to Target? I'm there. Need a mix CD? I'm so 1992. Winner chooses what they want from me. Favors of the Governor Spitzer persuasion not included.


1. I once got lost in Sesame Place by myself when I was 3. After that, my grandmother tied a phone cord around my waist whenever we went out somewhere.
2. I got my driver's license on my 17th birthday.
3. I love mushrooms. My favorites are Portabellas on the grill.
4. I was taken in by campus police for dancing with a wooden spoon on a table in the courtyard of my college apartment.
5. My body does not dissolve dissolvable stitches.
6. I love all types of cheese. I've never met a piece of cheese I didn't like.
7. MacGyver was my favorite show growing up.
8. I used to smoke a pack a day.
9. I am obsessed with Survivor and Big Brother.
10. I almost had a 4.0 in college and have three minors.

I'll reveal the answers on Monday.

Daylight savings time, my arse!

Can someone please tell me what Daylight Savings Time actually saves? Because it sure as hell isn't sleep.

It's been almost a week and we still aren't used to it.

At first, I put Charlotte down at what would have been normal time, since I didn't want to mess her up too badly, and then each night, we've moved it back a little earlier to try and get her in bed and asleep by her 7:30 bedtime. Trouble is, no matter what time we put her down, she talks to herself, sings, and plays with her teddies and blankets until 8:30, what in her mind is her normal bedtime. You'd figure she'd wake up an hour later too, to offset the difference. Nay, nay. Still same time, about 6:30 or so. Which means, she's losing an hour of sleep each night.

As all of you know, this in turn can create a crankpot. Crankpots do not nap well. Crankpots who do not nap well have a harder time falling asleep. Can you see the pattern of my life this week?

I do not like getting up when it's dark. I set my alarm for 5:45 and crawl out somewhere between then and 6:15, depending on if David Boreanz is nekkid or not in my dream. I open the blinds in the picture window to let light in to start my day and guess what? NO LIGHT. I shower and try and get myself together before Charlotte wakes up, so I don't have to rush shaving my legs because someone is throwing her "fishies in da POTTY!"

I do like how the end of the day is light. It's nice to drive home while the sun is till up, and be able to play outside (when it's not 30 degrees) later in the evening. I have more energy in the late afternoon to clean up and cook dinner after a long workday because the sun is shining, Timbaland is making me shake my booty, and the baby is happily sitting in the window with the kitty searching for planes.

Will my toddler ever be back on schedule? How can I convince her it's "night-night time" when there is still chinks of light filtering through her blackout shades? Those do help A TON, but she's not an idiot. She can see the light filtering through on the edges and knows in her head that light = up. Except of course in the wee hours of the morning, when apparently it is okay to sing "Crinkly Crinkle wittle TAR! Wonder WHEROO ARE!" when it is pitch black.

Do I have an anger problem?

Can anyone tell me why when the response "I'm so tired" comes from a young, healthy, childless person, I want to kick them in the shins, pull their hair, and run away? When they say "Yeah, I got up early and went to the gym at 10 am" I want to snap their bra strap like in 6th grade?

I mean, isn't everything relative? My problems are no bigger than the next person's, my responsibilities no more important, my schedule no less hectic. But for some reason when I know that said person has slept in a drunken fog until 11 am, they're hungover and THAT'S why they're tired, I want to scream that "YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IT'S LIKE TO BE TIRED!"

Instead I sympathize because yes, I truly do know tired. I know what it's like trying to function on mere minutes of sleep, take care of an infant, and still meet deadlines at work. I know what it's like to put eggs in the cabinet, milk in the pantry, and my panties on backwards. I also know that I have it easy now - a toddler who sleeps through the night and takes good naps, a husband who is more than my equal in the house - and I know that it will get worse. I know that once Sawyer comes, the fog will thicken, my eyes will sag, and auto-pilot will engage.

Yes, I know tired. Every parent knows that some days, even your hair and bones are tired. The worry alone that comes from having children can wear you into zombiedom.

But, still. I still get a pang of NEEDING TO PUNCH SOMETHING when someone whines about being tired to a pregnant mother.

Have I seriously lost my bananas?

Allergies

Aaaaaaaaaachhooooooo!

"Bless you, babe"
"Bessuuuu momma, ohgooness!"
"Thanks."

Aaaaaaaaaaaacchhhhoooooooo!

"GODDAMNIT!"
"What?"
"I peed myself. Again."
"Um...I love you?"

Despite daily Rhinocort and Zyrtec, my allergies are in full force today. Suffice it to say, I've changed three times. All because of this:

(21 weeks)

Ninja baby

I know they say that you feel the second baby move earlier than you do the first, and this was true. I felt the first flutters around 15 weeks and by 17, he was in full motion. Now at 21 weeks, I feel this kid move all. day. long. He gets the hiccups at least once a day, and I feel the rhythmic tap-tap-tap on my belly.

As of my last OB appointment this past Thursday, he was breech on the ultrasound, with his head on my left side and his feet down. "So THAT'S why I've felt like there's a foot in my hinterlands this week," I told the doctor. He laughed and said not to worry about it, that he would move and flip a bunch more. And he's probably right. He may even be back in normal position now, though I'm not sure which is normal at this stage, when he still has all the room to flip and turn. My concern is that Charlotte was breech from 22 weeks until around 34 weeks or so. I was filled with dread at the thought of the doctors trying to flip her. I watched a video of it once and suffice to say, I'd rather gnaw off my arm and beat myself unconscious with it than have three people tug at my belly, trying to turn a baby. Thankfully, she did flip on her own, two weeks before I delivered. I was sleeping when she did it, and I literally felt like I was kicked in the stomach. All the air was pushed out of my lungs. I bolted upright gasping for breath, holding my belly, making sure all the bits were there. And then I felt her little foot under my sternum instead of her head under my left rib, and knew what had happened.

So maybe I have a weird oblong uterus or my kids just like to hang out right-side up. What kid of mine would do things the right way?

All I know is that Sawyer moves WAY more than Charlotte ever did. People tell me it's because he's a boy and that I am in for it once he arrives. But Charlotte moved half as much and came out of my uterus demanding a bowl of cereal, princess shoes, and something to climb on. People tell me boys are more rambunctious, but I don't know how that's possible. Just this past weekend, she figured out how to open the front door and escape in order to "help daddy" load the car, while I was in the bathroom peeing for the 68th time. I am very thankful our new door with a deadbolt should be arriving soon (Can you believe I still don't have my new couch or front door? You'd think for four thousand dollars, they'd want to make me happy and get them in quick.)

Maybe a calm baby in the womb means a nutso baby on the outside? Someone please tell me that despite Sawyer's acrobatics that he will be a laid-back dude, because seriously, two of them will send me directly to the bathroom with a bottle of vodka.

Sharing rooms

My sister and I shared a room up until I was 14 and we moved out of our very urban city and into a suburban apartment complex closer to the private specialized high school I got into.

From the time she was born when I was four, we were roommates. First, she was in a crib caddy-corner to my big girl bed. I remember her crying a lot as a baby, and from my mother's stories now, I know that she matched Charlotte in colic. I also remember sitting in the "naughty chair" on more than one occasion because I deliberately woke her up and my punishment was to sit there until she fell back to sleep. Once, my mother had put her down for a nap and told me, "Do not go in that room. Do not touch that baby." So, I did what any smartass four-year old would do. I stood outside the door and poked her through the rungs in her crib with a broomstick until she woke up screaming. I wasn't in the room. I didn't touch her.

As we got older, we got into fights. I was neat. She was messy. And when our room got too bad, my mother would throw the door open, take her forearm and sweep all of the contents of our dressers onto the floor. She'd dump all the dresser drawers out. She'd pull everything from every corner of the room and put it into one big pile in the middle. We were not allowed out until it was cleaned up. And it was all Amy's fault.

There were times I literally drew a line down the middle of the room with duct tape so she'd stay away from my stuff. She was always into my art supplies or my Paula Abdul tapes. I'd yell and hide her Old MacDonald tapes. She retaliated by putting toothpaste in my hair or crayons up my nose when I was sleeping.

But there were times we'd play for hours. We'd pretend the floor was lava or full of alligators and we had to traverse from one end to the other without touching it. We made forts of our bunk beds. We colored and painted and listened to music. We watched TGIF every Friday night.

I knew once I got married and had kids that I would want them to share a room. Even if we had a big house with extra rooms. Amy and I shared a room out of necessity. Our childhood apartment was maybe 600 square feet, if that. And even though we came to fisticuffs rather often, I have a harder time recalling those memories than I do the ones with goofy laughter and sisterly exploits. When situations arose and we had issues, we had to work them out. We didn't have much of a choice.

I want that for my kids. I want them to have those issues they need to resolve. I want them to have those memories of staying up late on Christmas Eve, trying to figure out if that noise they heard was Santa.

We don't have any extra bedrooms in this house. It is a four-bedroom house technically, but one bedroom is in the finished basement and we use it as our office - a necessity for me. The other we've made into a dining room because even though we have an eat-in kitchen, it is kind of small and I like to have an adult space to entertain when we have dinner guests.

I realize that things are a little different than my sister and I because we will have one boy and one girl and that changes the dynamics. Though I wouldn't make them share a room into their teens, I realize Charlotte may need her privacy a bit earlier than I did from my sister. I assume by the time she is eight and Sawyer is six, she will be bugging me for her own space. And I will acquiesce. Maybe by then, we'll be in a new house. Maybe we'll have enough equity or money to add an addition. Maybe Mike and I will move into the dining room and give Charlotte the big room because I really don't want any kids on the first floor. Who knows?

All I do know is that having my children share a room for the first few years of their lives is important to me. I realize there will be issues - crying babies (even though Sawyer will be in our room for the first few months), keeping each other awake talking, jealousy, fights - but to me, the memories made and the lessons learned outweigh these inconveniences.

Do your kids share rooms? Did you do it out of want or necessity? Any tips from the trenches? When did you separate them if they are different genders?

Lessons learned at Sesame Street Live

1) Your kid will damn near have a stroke when she sees her favorite characters less than ten feet away (we had great seats, 2nd row on the floor).
2) You will be angry at yourself the whole time because you forgot your camera and your toddler was so happy to see a life-size Elmo and you won't have a damn second of it on film.
3) Intermission is THE worst time to have to pee.
4) Even though you are pissed you had to buy a seat for a 22-month old, the extra space came in handy for, you know, the other half of your ASS on the 12-inch seat.
5) Each time you pass a parent with their kid on one of those backpack harnesses (or in the real world - LEASHES), you cringe a little more.
6) Your daughter will not eat cotton candy because it is "too fuzzy."
7) She will, however, eat popcorn and nachos.
8) It is a bad idea to get your kid a balloon at intermission because they make you tuck it under the seat for the rest of the show, and that will piss each and every kid in the entire stadium off.
9) People drive like douchemuffins in the rain.
10) People walk like douchemuffins in the rain.
11) Even though she won't remember it (and you forgot your camera because YOU'RE a douchemuffin), watching her joy and doing these things as a family make it worth it.

I'm a sexy beast

This morning I woke up, got the spawn up, fed, and dressed. I tossed my greasy hair in a pony tail, threw on some mascara and lip gloss, shoved a sports bra on under my tank top, and even convinced myself that yes, I really should wear underwear out in public. Tied my sneakers, packed a book, a snack, and juice, and we headed to the gym. Oh, I think I may have reapplied deodorant. Not entirely sure. Yes, the visual you have is correct. I was funky.

First thing said to me when I walk in and see a new girl behind the desk: "Wow, good for you! You look HUGE! And with a little one! You are my hero! Let me know if you need anything." Sure lady, I need you to get me David Boreanz, a bottle of Duck Pond Pinot Noir, some cheese and grapes, and for you to...um, oh yeah, clamp your cake-eater! Why do people need to tell me I'm huge? You people are all so wonderful and tell me how nice I look and how cute I am, and then I go out in the REAL world and people don't say that. They tell me I'm huge and "You're due in JULY? Wow, you've got a lot more growing to do!" or "Are you sure there's not twins in there?"

Yes, I am due in July. No, there is only one baby.

Two other women made small talk about my belly as I jogged lightly on the treadmill, trying to read the words bouncing up and down in my book. Yes, I've heard you get much bigger with the second. Yes, I know it will go fast. No, I don't think we're having any more. Yes, we know it's a boy. Yes, we have a name chosen. Yes, as in Huck Finn.

I love talking. Really, I do. But for the love of lip gloss, I am so tired of talking about the SIZE of my belly.

I love being pregnant. I love my big belly, so it doesn't bother me or make me self-conscious when people say these things. I just don't get it. I don't understand what gives people the impression that pregnant women want to hear how large they are.

The world was set straight as I was finishing up my workout.

I was in the free-weight section, where most of the my-weenie-is-too-small-so-I-work-out-80-hours-a-week-to-compensate men hang out. But on a Friday morning, it was pretty quiet. I started doing arm curls, side extensions, tricep preses, checking my form. And then I saw him looking at me in the mirror.

I have named him Tony because that is what he looked like. He was maybe 60, dressed in a red track suit with a wife beater underneath, gray hair curled on his chest, swallowing the three gold chains he wore, each a religious medallion of some sort. He caught my eye and smiled. I smiled back because I am a friendly person, even to those so fashionably challenged. And I was in no state to judge other people by how they dressed considering I probably smelled like a football player by then. He took the smile as an invitation to come and talk to me. I am not a talker at the gym, and usually have my headphones on so I seem even more unapproachable. But today, I left them home in favor of my book.

He looks and says, "How far along are you?"

"Five months. Just hit the halfway mark."

"You look great. It is so good that you are still working out. It's healthy for you and the baby."

Wow, someone finally complimented me instead of pointing out how HUGE I was. Maybe I misjudged Tony.

"Thanks. That's very nice of you to say. I am feeling pretty good and would like to stay in some shape."

"Well, I think you have a great shape. Pregnant women are so sexy. You work it out, baby." And then he winks, smiles, and walks away.

So, one one hand, someone finally made conversation with me about my belly and gave me a compliment. On the other hand, it was a creepy old guy with a pregnancy fetish who wants me to "work it out." Awe. Some.

Question

Women: Do you groom your men?
Men: Do you let your women groom you?

I don't know if it's a throwback to our primate ancestors (sorry Creationists), or if it's an innate need to keep our men pruned and such, but I am constantly picking at my husband. At my urging (but now he agrees how much better he looks), he gets his eyebrows waxed at a local salon that does a great job of cleaning him up, de-Bert-ifying him, without making it look feminine or "done" by a big burly man named Sal who slaps him around, makes him chug five beers, and get a tattoo first.

If I see a stray eyebrow - one that breaks ranks - you know, the antennae kind, I have to pluck it. If his hair is spiking weird, I have to fix it. If his shirt sleeves are cuffed poorly, I have to recuff them. If he has a pimple, I have to pop it. So gross, I know. But I Just. Can't Help. Myself.

Please tell me I'm not crazy and that you are all as weird as me.

Halfway

Today I am 20 weeks pregnant, which in theory marks the halfway mark. I only made it to 36 weeks last time, so I may be ahead of the game this time. It seems to go much quicker with the second one. I guess I don't have the time to lie around, watch my belly grow, sleep the weekends away, and anxiously watch the calendar for that date - the luminous "due date." Instead, I chase elusive time between family and work, grasping at a few minutes here and there, hoping for time to stop for just one second.

The bastard that he is, Time stops for no one.

I want to remember this pregnancy, record every second in my brain. Because the reality is that this is more than 99% likely our last baby. In an ideal world with an endless bank account, I'd have more kids. To steal a saying from a friend, Mike and I apparently get pregnant if our underwear touches in the wash. I (knock on wood) have healthy and happy pregnancies. These are gifts that I am incredibly thankful for and don't take for granted. I just could not give more than two children the things they deserve. And by "things" I don't necessarily mean material possessions.

I work. I will always work. I can't not work. It's who I am. Luckily, I have a job that lets me spend a lot of time with my daughter and future son. But I worry that I wouldn't have enough time or attention to give any more children. I also send Charlotte (and will be sending Sawyer) to a wonderful woman who takes care of them like they are her own children twice a week. And even though she is like family to my daughter, that kind of care comes at a price. A price that would break the bank with more than two kids.

Mike and I love to travel and we always talked about trekking our kids with us when they were old enough - to safaris in Africa, to a walkabout in Australia, back to the black sand beaches in Hawaii where we had the time of our lives. Four people traveling is expensive enough, but how can we afford five, six, seven plane tickets? The answer: we couldn't. We wouldn't go. And I feel like I'd be depriving Charlotte and Sawyer of some incredible life and family experiences if we had more children.

For some people, the joys of having and raising children are the highest priority. Loving them is enough. And these people raise wonderful, well-rounded human beings even if they can't afford everything they'd like to. I grew up with very little in the way of material things, but was never in want. My parents and grandparents never made me feel like I didn't have things, because I didn't know the difference. They worked hard to make sure my sister and I had the things kids wanted.

And I know no matter how many children I'd have, they'd never want either.

But like most people, I want more for my children just as my mom wanted more for me.

I don't know that there is ever a "right" amount of children for anyone - that it falls into place for you and what's best for you and your family.

Part of me is so sad that this is my last pregnancy, the last time I will feel a child grow inside me. Part of me feels so guilty that I feel like I am wasting my fertility and I wish I could give it to someone else - people who desperately want and deserve babies. But part of me is so excited to have Sawyer and watch my two babies grow up, and give them the kind of life they deserve. A life of balance, of working hard for everything you have, of earning your way. But a life of great rewards and experiences, of opportunities to experience things I never have - to do them as a family.

Here's to the next half:

(20 weeks)

A taste of spring, a little bit of color

She's got the sun in her hands...
(Canon 30D, 70-300 mm lens)

First blooms of spring

(Canon 30D, 70-300 mm lens)

She has Daddy's heart in her hands
(Canon 30D, 28-135 mm lens)

Edit to "going green"

I had a mis-type in my last post, which I fixed. I meant to type that "cloth/reusable diapers" are those which I will never use. I just can't handle the concept.

And of course we recycle. I forgot to add that. I didn't think recycling was an option. It has been mandatory here for some time, though it has become habit over the last 20 years.

And we wash everything but towels/sheets in cold water. I forgot to add that in too.

Original post below.

Going green

Recently, we stopped using plastic store bags. We don't use the regular canvas bags they sell in the store because they are way too small for a little family who eats like cows apparently, illustrated by our $150/week grocery bill. But I found canvas bags at Home Depot that are fantastic. They are twice as large as the regular bags, are waterproof, and have interlocking handles. The handles attach to the sides of the grocery carts, leaving a giant open bag in your cart, and then you just load them up, put them in the car and go. It's much quicker than plastic bags because there are less of them, they snap together to prevent your food from falling out, and I don't have to feel bad that some fish somewhere is choking to death because I needed Mallowmars.

We also used to use plastic/paper cups with our water cooler, because truthfully, it was just easier than doing the dishes. But, we also stopped that a year or so ago, and now only use them during parties. We still do use paper plates but sparingly. I use them for small meals and for quick things. If I used a regular plate every time I needed one, I'd do three loads of dishes a day and when does the cure become worse than the illness, ya know? When is wasting the water worse then using the paper plates? What about reusable diapers (which I will NEVER use) - isn't the water you use and the detergent you are putting into our water just as bad as using disposable diapers? I know there's good arguments for both sides, but I wonder which is truly better.

We have switched all of our lightbulbs to the new energy-efficient kind. We use Method cleaning products, though I tend to just use water and a "miracle cloth" do do most things that don't require disinfecting, like windows, glass, appliances.

We are also joining a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) this year. It's basically when you buy a "share" into a local farm, and during the growing season, you will get weekly shares of the crops. This is good for many reasons - 1) you get local, fresh, usually organically grown produce; 2) it saves you money in the long run if you eat a lot of produce; and 3) you are supporting local agriculture/farms. To learn more or find a farm that participates in your area, you can check Local Harvest.

We are far from a "green" family, as evidenced by the two SUVs we drive (after being in six car accidents - none my fault - I will never ever ever drive a car), the regular soaps and detergents we use, the diapers our child(ren) wear, among other things. But I am trying to make my footprint on this earth as small as I can given our life circumstances.

What does your family do to be green? Any advice on what else I can do realistically?

How my two selves react in the same situation

Scene: I have just sat down to eat a chocolate chip cookie with a glass of milk. The baby is asleep and the house is quiet. I have been looking forward to this all evening. Unfortunately, one bite in, I realize the cookie sucks.

Non-pregnant self: Eww. I am so not wasting calories on this. Maybe we have some sugar-free chocolate pudding.
Pregnant self: Is there any more cookies? I'm still hungry.

Scene: I am on my commute to/from work and someone's driving is pissing me off.
Non-pregnant self: Douche. I'll just change lanes and get out of his way.
Pregnant self: I wonder if his Botox-injecting wife will miss him if I run him off the road, pull him out of his BMW by the three pieces of hair in his combover, reach my hand down his throat, and rip out his gonads from the inside.

Scene: I am in Target.
Non-pregnant self: I do not need chocolate in the house, even if it is 90% off.
Pregnant self: I should go get another cart for all this candy.

Scene: Toddler throws a colossal fit in the aisle of the supermarket and you know strangers are staring at you.
Non-pregnant self: It's alright. All kids throw fits. It will pass. Ignore the people who apparently have no children of their own.
Pregnant self: For the love of Fleetwood Mac people, have you never seen a toddler have a fit? Would you rather I give in and give her the giant bag of "nemmy-nemmies" she wants so she can have the next fit ON A SUGAR HIGH? Have you seen a demon spawn throw a tanrum with M&Ms coarsing through her veins? Would you like to?

Scene: Doing another load of laundry, another load of dishes, washing the same floor my poor husband just washed twenty minutes ago because said toddler threw her dinner on the floor because she was "all done - ice cream?"
Non-pregnant self: Well, this is what I signed up for. The joys outweigh these moments. Just breathe.
Pregnant self: I (sob) can't (sob) do (sob) this. We're having another one! There's gonna be (sob) twice as much (sob) TO DO. What in the name of all that is good were we THINKING?!? How do people have more than two kids and not duct tape them to the wall?

Scene: Seeing someone with their first new baby.
Non-pregnant self: That's cute but those stupid sons of bitches don't know what they're in for.
Pregnant self: Awww, I want more. Let's have five kids! My boobs are leaking already! Can you ovulate when you're pregnant because I think I just did!

Lemming much?

I'm thinking about switching over to Wordpress. It seems to be the new cool thing to do. Here's the problem. Not only is this a custom html design with Blogger specifications that I paid someone to do, but I own the domain www.diaryofamodernmatriarch.com through godaddy.com and it took me like two days to figure out all the specifications for that and to have it set up with Blogger.

I also think I want a new design. I love love my header, but in 4-5 months, I'll have another kid and feel like he should be included. Maybe someone with exceptional Photoshop skills can add one in without changing too much? Or maybe it's time for a totally new design.

I hate that I can't reply to everyone in Blogger. Some people ask me questions and I feel bad that I can't reply directly. I know a lot (most) people don't subscribe or backtrack to see my comments so I don't respond there. And if I don't have your e-mail, I look like a big jerk.

I want to hire someone who will help me (read: do everything) with the switch-over and maybe someone to help with a new design. Would be a plus if the same person could do it all. I probably could learn to do it myself like I did with Blogger but I am busy as hell lately, cranky, pregnant, and tired. I'd rather pay someone. Hell, if I could afford it, I'd pay someone to put my pants on these days because it is such a daunting task. I mean, pajamas are SO much more comfortable when your belly is shoving your underwear down to your knees.

So I need these things from you guys:

1) Do you think it's time for a new design? Any ideas to help make my site better? All suggestions except "clamp your cake-eater" welcome.
2) Do you know anyone who can help with the above issues?
3) If you do, e-mail me with costs/pricing and any other information.

Since weekends are slow

I figured I'd purge my camera and bombard you all with gratuitous toddler pictures. At least she's a cute demon spawn, right?

My grandmother made this hat. Could you not die over how cute it is?


A typical Sunday morning dress-up with Uncle Brian's fashion choices.


In case you can't read it, her shirt says "My mama is blogging this." Classic.