the christmas boil & other things.

For Christmas, I received many lovely gifts from lovely people. I also received a giant boil on the side of my body. I don't really know what to say about this, except that I had previously believed that boils were reserved for the elderly. I was wrong. Semi-active 30 year olds can also develop boils. And let me tell you, internet, they hurt. There is no way I will be posting a shot of the thing. Trust me, you don't want to see it. Suffice it to say, my Christmas Eve trip to the doctor for antibiotics was a highlight of the last few days. On a happier note, here's a picture of my two lovelies, on a morning drive.Here's hoping your holiday was wonderfully fleshwound free.

'tis better to give.

Christmas 2002: I get Nate a super-cool book that he's been looking for forever. He falls in love (with the book first, later with me).

Christmas 2003: Nate surprises me with the kitchenaide mixer. In a longstanding bet with a group of girlfriends, whoever is the last to marry, the others will pitch in on an 'aide for her. I wouldn't be getting mine from my girlfriends.

Christmas 2004: I have a sign made for the new shop. He hangs it the next day.

Christmas 2005 & 2006: I have no idea what either of us got the other.

Christmas 2007: Nate excitedly calls me from the shop to tell me that our big Christmas purchase has arrived.

pottywatch: 07

Here's an update all about the potty:

Sept. 26, 2007- Purchase 2 packs of girl undies, promptly drape them across vintage bus and snap pictures. The girl is unimpressed.

Sept. 27- December 18, 2007- Claire wears the undies some mornings for an hour or so. She sits on the potty every night before her bath and several times throughout the day. When she's tired of sitting there, she throws bits of paper into the bowl, waves bye-bye to the paper and flushes. She does this ten frillion times a day, without actually going into the potty. Occasionally, she'll pull the trainers down and pee freestyle in the corner of the kitchen. Some mornings when I wake her, I'm greeted with, "Mama! Big POOP. Wash!"

Today- Hallelujah! Angels sing. The girl successfully pees into the potty. Later, mama broadcasts this information onto the worldwide web, because of course that is the logical thing to do.

On a totally unrelated note, I'm thinking of cutting off the mullet. I wish she'd let me pony her hair up, but it only lasts like this about 3 seconds. I started to take her to cut it yesterday but I chickened out. Any thoughts?

this too shall pass.

A couple of days ago, Claire woke up with the flu. When her tummy hurts, the only place she wants to be is in Mama's arms. Unfortunately for me, this means almost every time Claire has vomited, I have been on the receiving end of things.

Strange things happen to you when you become a mother. Suddenly, you can handle being vomited on. You can handle so much more than you thought. Time stops. You lose whole weeks to things like sleep schedules and pooping in the potty. And then, when you're not looking, it gets easier. I remember New Year's Eve last year, all three of us were sick with the flu and Nate and I kind of looked like, "what are we supposed to do now?" This time, we knew. We stripped beds. We put the girl in the bath. We made toast. And we waited.
The mini would like to report that I didn't wait long enough, and later that afternoon, Claire managed to get sick one last time en route to the store. I'm still learning, folks.

Speaking of minis, have you seen this? Hilarious.

recap.

December with a small child is awesome. Here a few highlights.

a long november.

When Claire does something she's especially proud of she shouts, "Ididit!" Sometimes she also adds a little "ta-da!" as a verbal flourish. I love watching her, but you already know that.

This month has been a blur. Baking. Hosting my first Thanksgiving (note to self: 1 turkey is enough, fool). Cutting felt leaves. The Weepies on repeat. Playdates that I loved. Ones the girl loved too. A trip to the movies with girlfriends. Sick kiddo. Sick Dada. New chooz. Rain. A million stories read in my lap. New signs. New words. Trying. The girl keeps growing, growing, growing. I find new things to appreciate in the Dada. I find new strength in myself. A million written words and bunch of photos. Sketchy editing at best. I don't like posting every day. To quote myself from the other night, "I am so sick of me." So, friends, a little break is in store, but don't worry, I'll be back soon. I promise.

Ididit. And Ta-da.

thursday thrift: new chooz

Will I ever learn? $3.74 impulse flats from Target. That's less than a latte.

Tomorrow the girl will spend a few quality hours returning my new chooz to my feet. Her obsession has only grown. If I take mine off she quickly returns them to me shouting, "mama chooz!" This both cute and annoying. Some days, she insists on wearing chooz during her nap. Sometimes she spends a sad amount of time trying to cram her 5 wide into a cute but tiny size 4 mary jane. Most mornings, she asks for "dada...baba...monk...chooz." In that order. She's got her priorities.

buy this bib

You don't always want your kid to be naked. I mean, it's cute and everything, but where we live it is a soggy, cold mess right now and stripping her down for meals feels a little inhumane. Also, public nude dining isn't really our thing. I had been searching around for a bib that would do its job and stay on her body the entire meal.

A friend recently introduced me to this this baby. I want to marry this bib. It's sturdy and washable. The latch on the back stays put. I wasn't sure about the wee small pocket in front, but the pocket is Claire's favorite feature. She'll drop a bean or an olive in there and suddenly has a reason to shout, "uh-oh!" and reach in for the lost item. Hours of fun, people. Best of all, the bib is considerably cheaper than the therapy she'd need to get over the humiliation of public nude dining.
Buy the bib, chumps. Buy it.

quote

In Eat, Pray, Love, Elizabeth Gilbert says, "Having a baby is like getting a tattoo on your face. You really need to be certain it's what you want before you commit."


Or, if you're me, it's like waking up in the morning with a tattoo on your face that becomes your most favorite, treasured thing.

fanclub

19

Dear Claire,
I love 19 months. Love. I know a lot of people love a cuddly newborn, but I'll take you at 19 months any day. You have opinions. You say "de-doo" (thank you) when you give us things, like you're trying to teach the giants some manners. You do the sign for cookie when we pull into the church parking lot. You make me laugh. And tonight when I was getting you a final drink before bed, you pulled my face to yours with your chubby hands for another kiss and hug. Sometimes there's so much sweetness, and my heart is so full I can't quite believe that this is my life.

It's not always belly laughs and chubby hands on my face. There are fits of crying and toddler drama. There are peeing on the kitchen floor days. There are days when I feel like all I'm saying is nononononono. Still, I can't imagine me without you. And I wouldn't want to try.
Love,
Mama

etsy find.

A few weeks ago, I ordered a little treat for myself from Erin Rae's etsy shop. The circle with three sprouts is perfect for our little family right now. Who knows? Maybe I'll have to order another necklace in a year or so.

the desperation post: bedside table

Two size 9 bamboo knitting needles (I haven't knitted in 2 years)
One roll of Lion Brand Wool-Ease Yarn (olive green)
October issue of Everyday with Rachael Ray (front cover partially removed)
November/December issue of Blueprint magazine (the one with the hideous pink Christmas tree on the cover, intact).
Medium-sized notebook of lists, mostly irrelevant
Two black sharpies (one thick, one thin)
Purple MOPS fresh air pen (holla!)
Burt's Bee's Coconut foot creme 4.34 oz tube
Microwavable rice bag for the cramps
Unread Weight Watchers information
Last dregs of Nut Body butter
Comfort Care ultra moisturizing lotion, from some hotel
Tiny red notebook, unused except for the first page

I apologize for this post. It has been a day.

gratitude.

Grateful for the little girl hyped up on sugar and screaming like a wild woman in the next room. Incredibly grateful. Always.

wordless wednesday from the dada.

the homework post.

Some friends are hosting a coffee party at a venue that I must visit. The golden ticket to this event is my answers to the following questions. I'm terrible at these things, but I'll do my best to play along:

What is your motto?
I tried to think of something funny or deeply spiritual, but I have to agree with Priscilla. I don't really have a motto. See, already lame. The cool kids are so not going to let me in.

What superhuman power would you most want to have?
I would enjoy doing what he does.

What makes you laugh?
Claire's dance moves. Nate's singing.

Cats or dogs?
Our dog Monkey.

Would you rather be a little smarter or sexier?
Yes.

What's the one thing you'll never understand?
Anything remotely math-y or science-y.

My life would be simpler if?
I hadn't signed up for NaBloPoMo.

The big decision I'm currently wrestling with is...
Whether we're ready to make theoretical second child a reality.

all better.

The Dada reports that he is feeling 88%. Claire's behavior would indicate that she is back to normal. There has been dancing, requests to bake cookies, and a returned sparkle. As much as I liked the cuddling, I'm thankful she's back to normal.

from these trenches.

Sometimes there's just nothing cute or funny to report. Sometimes 2/3 of the family is sick and you find yourself envying them because sleep sounds nice. Miss Independent becomes a cuddler, who sounds like she has a pack-a-day habit. And The Dadaship looks like he's seconds from sinking. You just hang on. Thankful that it won't last forever. Thankful that there's been no puking (thank you, Sweet Jesus). Thankful that you're well enough to make them soup and jello and that your patients are down for the night (I can dream) just as your patience expires.

because pilgrim hats are only cute when you're five.

This week I cut a bunch of leaves out to decorate for our Thanksgiving table. I can't quite cope with cornucopias and turkeys, but this site had a bunch of fall decorating suggestions that I loved. Enjoy.

china. china. far away.

Did you know that I lived in China for a year? Did you know that when people talk about things Hecho in China, I picture wrinkled women and a certain little boy without a stitch of clothing? I think about the air, thick with pollution in our city. I think of the layer of dirt that covered everything. I think of the squatties. I think of the river of raw sewage that fertilized a local garden. China was loud and complicated and unbelievably sweet. I don't usually get political in this blog. It's not my style. Lately, though, I have become concerned with the stuff that I see on the news. It's a strange world we live in, where we have become dependent on what would qualify as slave labor in our own country to produce the things that we "need." The year I lived in China, I made just under $300 a month. That wage made me the Donald Trump of the university I worked at. Thankfully, I had better hair. I urge you to take a look at where the things you're buying for your kids are coming from. Not just because of potential dangers to our own kids, but because depending on the third world to produce crappy plastic things for the first world is a bad idea.

mr. incredible.

Claire loves the book Each Peach Pear Plum. We read it nearly every day. Each time we get to "Robin Hood in his den, I spy the bears again,"

She shouts, "Dada!" Then she points to Robin Hood with his red goatee and green tights. And then I laugh.

worth repeating.

I posted this quote from The Mother's Almanac, last spring, which for me, puts into words why I blog.

“You need to accomplish a little bit every day-something that can’t be undone by another wash, another meal, another day of dust. A day in which nothing new is learned or nothing permanent is done is a day wasted as far as your psyche is concerned, for none of us ever stops growing.”

It also explains why I am spending today off of the computer and organizing my chaotic basement. Pictures to follow.

suggestion.

If you can get over looking like a dork, infant sign language will rock your world. I know for sure that Claire LOVES all animals. I know when she's tired. When she's hungry. And when she wants a cookie. (Hint: almost always). At this stage of the game, she's hungry for words, and also cookies. Simple communication means fewer tantrums. Fewer tantrums mean more time with your child wherein you're not fantasizing about abandoning your child. Everyone wins.

why i named claire elisabeth.

Becca, I too love names. Nate and I were talking about possible names for theoretical second child. I'm not even sure we're ready to have a second child, but we like to talk names.
Here's a partial sampling from Nate's boy list:

Bruno
Gus
Fidel
Reginald

Just to reiterate: still not pregnant. Just talking names with The Dada. It's possible he thinks we're in the market for a new puppy.

tunnel-o-love.

Claire seems to really dig the tunnel I picked up for her at Ikea this week.Apparently, she's not the only one.

no estoy embarazado

There seemed to be a tiny bit of confusion after yesterday's post. Yesterday I wrote a letter to myself dated November 2005. That fall, I was pregnant. This fall, not pregnant. So that we're all clear and my mother doesn't have a heart attack....Definitely not pregnant.

Also, I'm not allowed to use the word "trying," because some husbands find that word offensive. I do, however, have a new haircut and a wee, small pimple on my lower lip.

correspondence.

A note to myself, November 2005

"You can't know this right now but soon enough things will change. In a few short weeks, you will look up and see her bouncing around on the TV screen. There will be five tiny fingers flared out, jazz-hand style, waving, telling you what you already know, I’m here. Even through the grainy screen, she will be pretty. After months of nausea and uncertainty, you will be taken by her in that instant. You will never be the same. She will stop being the cause of nausea. That is the day that you will become her mama."
Also, you may want to lay off the macaroni and cheese. Our butt will thank you.

thursday thrift: pizza dough

Lest you let your imaginations run wild and start thinking of me as a Martha, I give you a wonderful, thrifty tip for making pizzas at home. Pre-made pizza dough from your grocer's refrigerator. Ours is from Winco. 98 cents makes enough dough for a good size pie (or if you're feeling fancy, flip it over and you've got a calzone). If you're making it with Claire, you're going to need extra toppings. Full disclosure: if you're eating it at our house, your chicken could come pre-tasted by one curious little mouth.

so i don't forget.

I wish I could capture the rollercoaster of today. The fun of rolling out dough with you. The chaos of trying to explain that pizza toppings go on the pizza, not in your mouth. That fistfuls of olives aren't ladylike. I wish I could capture the terror of watching you dump an entire cup of hot coffee on your tiny feet. Of listening to you cry. Of holding you while you made the "pain" sign over and over and over. In the end, there are pictures. A tummy full of pizza dough and no visible scars. Not bad, ladies. Not bad at all.

new friend.

I am a hider. Even though I live in my hometown, almost all of my friends are people I met in my 20's. I didn't hate high school. I wasn't bullied. Yet, I'm a hider. I'm not sure why I hide.

Unfortunately, this town is small and my face hasn't changed much. This can be a problem for a hider. Lucky for me, I am experienced at hiding. I could teach an upper-division course on hiding from people in your hometown. It is an art. It is a skill.

One of my closest friends from high school recently made the move back to our hometown. And she brought a tiny friend for Claire. I am so excited about this move, that I may come out of hiding. There is something to be said about people who knew you before you were who you became. Who knew you when you had a crush on that stupid boy. Who forgave you when you whacked off her lovely curls. Look out, Class of '95, if you see me in the grocery store, I might ask you how you've been.

a is for awesome!

Stripping down in the gym locker room and discovering that instead of your usual black Speedo, you brought the top half of your maternity tankini.

nick nolte: a definition.

It wasn't always easy for us to read what Claire was trying to tell us. There were weeks of sleep training, hard painful weeks when we were getting the hang of her subtle cues. Rubbing eyes generally meant I was too late and naptime was going to be a battle. Claire at 18 months is a master communicator. At bedtime, she grabs Teddy and a book. Then she climbs up on our laps for a cuddle and a story. Her hair goes wild and when she's extremely tired, she pulls a throw pillow off of the couch and curls up on the floor, indicating, "Mama, I'm ready for bed." In our house, the state of exhaustion beyond tired is known as Nick Nolte tired. Thankfully, Nick Nolte only shows up when her routine gets out of whack. Like when our clocks change in the middle of the night for no apparent reason. Then she staggers around the house like a tiny, tired drunk.

why infant sign language and finger paint don't mix.

at tom's request.

Do you think this guy would have liked my pink pastel self? I'm not sure. Here he is folks, Nate of '87 (or '88?) with his pet mouse, Elvis.
You can look, ladies, but he's all mine.

thursday thrift: pop pop vacuum of death.

In honor of NaBloPoMo and the fact that I can't think of something new to write about every day without some help, I'll be introducing some new, exciting features to the blawg. I can't guarantee that these features will remain after December 1, but that's not really point. The point is survival, friends.

Without further ado, I give you Thursday Thrift, a little segment wherein I describe a favorite bargain find. I love thrift shopping, and thrift stores are overflowing with all kinds of wonderful treasures for the girl. Today's item is the poppop vacuum of death. With this toy, the child gets to spend hours pretending to vacuum. You know, for fun. Despite being decades old, the thing is ridiculously loud and only appealing to the girl when the giants are trying to have a conversation. The price of this little gem: $3.

What's the worst toy at your house? I may want to talk about a trade.

back to the 'patch.

I wasn't going to post today in preparation for November. But then the girl has to go and be all cute and covered in cinnamon sprinkles. And I'm a sucker for cute. Here's her round pumpkin head a year ago on our trip to the 'patch with our MOPS friends.And in the same spot with the same friends today. Last year, she cuddled in the sling. This year, she ran.

No more posts from me until Thursday. And then, I fear, much more than any of us want to hear.

in response.

For the record, this is the last time that I was fashionable. The year was 1987. Somehow between then and now, my skin lost the ability to tan. The rainbow pastel dress was my idea. Mom, I'm blaming you for the perm.

I loved the comments section from Claire's birthday letter. I loved it, because 18 months ago I had no mommy friends. Now, I make one comment about being out of style and the mamas come riding in to cheer me up. Don't we all feel like the frumpy one sometimes? Since having Claire, I feel like I have no idea how to dress myself. If anyone has tips on dressing the 30 year old post-baby body, I'm all ears. Just, please don't suggest rainbow pastels or perms.

18

Dear Claire,
Seriously, when did this happen?

This month you added "howareyou?" to your little vocabulary. You love babies, books and shoes. If we take ours off you quickly retrieve them and shout "shoe!shoe!shoe!" until we put them back on. It's annoying. Sometimes I just want them off, girlie.

You and I crammed into a dressing room yesterday so I could try on a few things. I was having an especially frumpy mommy day. Not that I'm blaming you, but the body just isn't what it was before you were born. Things have changed. Migrated. As I pulled another "not-right" top over my head, I caught a glimpse of you in the mirror. It's hard to criticize the person you see in the mirror when you've got your very own tiny cheering section beaming up at you. You began to wave and smile. You had already been stuck in that stroller way too long, yet you were full of joy, just smiling at me. You are too little to realize that your mama is hopelessly out of style. You only see your mama, and for now, I am enough. Anybody that can make a Gap dressing room enjoyable is my kind of girl. I am so lucky to get to spend my days with you. Your joy is contagious.
Love,
Mama

part of an email to the dadaship, away for the night.

Claire squealed with delight when we pulled up to the house tonight. She saw your truck and thought you were home. Smart one, that girl.

“DADA DADA DADA!” She screamed, and then quietly asked, “Da?”
“No, honey. Dada will be home tomorrow.”
“Mama?” She replied.
“Yes honey.” Mama’s here.

I remember her before she had words.

Miss you. So does Monk.

this just in.

A few days ago, Steph sent me this recipe, from this new cookbook. Finally, a break from Raisin Bran.

Pumpkin Oatmeal (tastes like fall)

1 cup old fashion oats
1 cup milk
1/4 cup canned pumpkin
1/4 cup brown sugar
1 hefty dash of cinnamon

Microwave all of it in a big glass bowl for 2-3 minutes.

Throw in a handful of raisins after it's cooked. Eat up, friends.

pumpkinhead.

I'm pretty sure that I am somewhere around 40% water and 60% pumpkin spice latte by now. I love fall. The leaves. The costumes. The pumpkin patch. It makes me want to wear wool socks and eat butternut squash soup. I spent a few hours making inedible pumpkin bread yesterday with Claire. I'm not sure what I left out, but the bread was not right. My little assistant enjoyed eating the canned puree so much that at one point she seriously attempted to get the entire bowl from my Kitchenaide mixer into her wee small mouth.
I'd like to use up the rest of the puree to make something we might actually eat. Can anyone recommend a good pumpkin scone recipe? I mean, besides the recipe that involves the Starbucks drive thru. We are quite familiar with that recipe around these parts.

you make me wanna be brave.

also the reason my underarms stay dry.

Having my own pointy chinned-strawberry blond, I wonder about how to combat all of this. I love her little body. Her wee, round belly. Her dimply hands. I want her to know that she is enough. I'm so glad that there are years and years before I have to have answers for her. I am so glad that for now, she struts around in her diaper and dances like a wild woman. I am thankful that junior high dances are a long way off.

i can't quit you.

Who else doing this in November?

planned parenthood.

As I have documented all over this blog, becoming a mommy was not in my plans when I became pregnant with Claire. My pregnancy was filled with tears, confusion and guilt. It is still a marvel to me that I was such a Fertile Myrtle when wonderful women, who were better equipped to handle motherhood were working hard to have babies without conceiving. For me, the guilt and confusion eventually faded and I can honestly say I wouldn't change one bit of my life.

We got a night away this weekend, in which we enjoyed some fancy cable television, sleeping in (to 8:30) and 24 hours where I wasn't responsible for anyone's poop but my own. On the way home, Nate casually mentions that maybe it's time to start "trying" for the next baby. For me, this is such a loaded word. I remember, two years ago waiting until week 20 to tell people about Claire. I remember fumbling for my words when people asked me if we were "trying" to get pregnant. I had plans. I wasn't prepared. I felt ashamed.
How often do we miss out on joy because we're trying to plan everything to happen at the exact right moment? And there is One who knows better than we do.

Claire was not unplanned. Not at all.

america's next top baby.

There have been plenty of cute stories and hard lessons over the last seven days. Before I get to all of that, there is this. I'm pretty sure I found the best timewasting website ever. Ever. If you were dying to know what Claire looked like with Tyra Banks' hair, wonder no more, friends:
Miss Jay would not approve. "You are not America's Next Top Model."

Or Cameron Diaz's hair?

Or my personal favorite, Keira Knightley's hair?

Looking a little bit Donald Trump, girlie.
Someday, she's going to hate me for this.

i see london. i see france.

I just bought Claire some training pants.

I realize that this might be a little early. But I have been a mom long enough to know that all kids are different and mine seems fascinated with all things potty. She tugs at my leg (and at her diaper) when she wants a change. She sits on the potty next to me every time I go. The final straw was when she couldn't get my attention last night while I was making dinner. She sat down on the kitchen floor, ripped her dirty diaper off and made a naked run for the changing table.

I reserve the right to postpone this little endeavor at any time if it appears to just be way too much for either of us.

17

Dear Claire,
Today you turned 17 months old. I have been distracted. Your dad and I have been facing some hard business things and my response is typical mama. I want to fix things. Things that are bigger than I can fix. The answer continues to be "wait." Somehow, I had this idea in my head that most of the waiting in life is over by the time you hit adulthood. Silly mama. Waiting is lifelong. In your way, you have been teaching me that, girlie. You are completely in the moment. You spend entire days aerobically running. You are easily distracted. You add words to your vocabulary every day. You are not the same person you were a month ago. Best of all, you toddle up and give us hugs and kisses, even when we've done nothing to warrant your affection.

Despite my frustration at customers who "forget" to pay for their purchases, there has been tremendous joy over the last month. Teaching you the sign for banana. Watching you communicate in ways you couldn't have a month ago. You are becoming a little girl right before my eyes. A year ago, you were still fuzzy around the edges.
And now, you are an animal. You crawl up under your toy cars to fix them. You want to get your own sippy cup. You have friends. You still wave, but now you say hi. Now you dance. Now you blow kisses. I wouldn't change a thing.
Love, Mama

international help desk.

It is helpful to have at least one friend who knows her way around a website. Last night after another awesome day at Chez Iderdider, I emailed a college friend, who at the moment is living the dream in the UK, with my website problems. Hayes was able to save the day with directions that even this frazzled mommy could understand. In her honor, we will load our groceries into the boot of the mini, try to work the word loo into our daily vocabulary and daydream of Clive Owen as much as possible.

At last, Claire raises a sock, triumphantly. Take that, blogger!

where is the love?

I seem to be experiencing some technical difficulties. Let's try a little game in 2 steps.
Step 1: Refresh your screen.
Step 2: Everyone who can see Nate's fists at the top of your screen raise your hands. It should look something like this:
Those fists seemed a lot funnier a few days ago before they didn't want to stay at the top of my screen and they started interrupting my naptime.

kitchen aide.

We finally made the big bloggy move. Welcome. To celebrate, I thought I would share with you a little taste of bananay heaven. In our house this is known as Ridiculously Good Banana Bread. Nate requests it for his birthday treat every year. Claire has recently started helping. Turning the mixer on full-blast makes her day. Here's the recipe:
Preheat oven to 300.
Grease 4 pans and dust with cinnamon sugar
Cream together:
3/4 c. butter
3 c. sugar
Add:
3 eggs
6 old bananas
16 oz sour cream
2 t. vanilla
2 t. cinnamon
one good shake cardamom
Mix in:
1/2 t. salt, 3 t. soda, 4 1/2 c. flour
Stare in amazement at the mixer.
Divide into four pans and bake for 1 hour.
Sometimes at this point I add a crumb topping* which is equal parts flour, melted butter and brown sugar. At this point, I should also stop calling this a bread, because come on, it's a giant fatty cake.

Eat. Share with friends.

*Nate calls the crumb topping crusty goodness. Because that is exactly what it is.

diagnosis: toddler.

You were loading the dishwasher? Sorry about that, I'm going to need to close it...immediately. I need Cherrios. I need Cherrios. I need CHERRIOS. I'll do the sign for please, but I'm not looking you in the eye, lady. I have my pride. Must have sippy cup. I can fill it myself. I'm a big girl. Time to run. Time to dance. Time to play. Cuddle me. Rock me. Let me down.

I once joked that I suspected Claire's behaviors would warrant a diagnosis of pica. What's today? ADD? OCD? My treatment plan includes: an early nap for the girl. And for me: copious caffeine consumption.

So glad I took all of those social work classes.