my body is not a wonderland

I recently read something that made my blood boil. Something about Salma Hayek being a fat. Seriously, if Salma Hayek is fat, I should only be taken out of the house by crane. It's a strange, strange world we live in folks.

I'm guessing the goon who wrote the article (that I'm not going to link, because seriously, who needs to read such lies?) might not be aware that what he described as a "beer gut" had nothing to do with beer, but is the result of a crazy thing called pregnancy. Salma Hayek had a baby around the same time The Mister joined us.

It is an amazing honor to be someone's mother. But sheesh, the body doesn't exactly shrink back up gracefully. Maybe in a year, my own spare tire will disappear a bit. Maybe. In the meantime, I'll dream of being as unattractive and repulsive as Salma Hayek.

tried to make me go to rehab (i said no no no).

Rip Van Claire decided that for the month of February she would boycott naps. She was becoming a beast in the evenings. By 6 PM, she was a blubbering red-faced mess, refusing her dinner and demanding stories. Wednesday, Nate stayed home with the kids so I could go and ram my head against the wall, I mean, take a break.

Yesterday, The Dada (bless him) suggested removing the (mountain of) books from her bed at naptime. We allowed one book, had a little prayer and talk about how great sleep is and she finally relented. After missing a month of naps, she finally slept. And she was her usual, fun self the rest of the evening.

Today, when I put her down for rest, I let her choose the one book and it felt like I was running a wee small rehab for toddler junkies.
"I'll just put this one next to me."
"No, that one's my favorite!"
"Teddy needs his book."
"Let's put one on the floor by my biggirlbed."
In the end, we used a more cold turkey approach and from the sound of the next room, it appears to be working. Who knows though, she's probably got a stash under her mattress.

limited omniscience.

We drive down the street and she wants to know the names of the joggers, of the man on the billboard, of the voice on the radio. She keeps asking until my answer satisfies. She wants to know every. single. thing.
The day will come when I won't have the answer to your every question. When I won't be invited to your hot chocolate parties.

And I will remind you that when you were 2 1/2, I knew everything.

mister wonderful.

"I just like to smile. Smiling is my favorite."
-Will Ferrell as Buddy in Elf

party of two.

I spent much of my second pregnancy worrying about how the baby would impact Claire. When I wasn't worrying about his impact on her life, I worried about hers on him. Today, I watched them giggle and play on the floor. I listened to her translate his needs. I listened to him cry out when she (briefly) left the room to get another toy.
I wish the camera on my phone could have captured their giggles this day. I want to record it all, before they are arguing over the bathroom and the remote control. At 5 months and 2 1/2, they are each other's favorite.

kiss me.

Mister Baby started giving kisses this week. They are slobbery, messy affairs, but he kisses on command, which at 5 months old, seems pretty impressive to me. It's no mystery how he learned to do this, we can't keep our lips off of those cheeks.

magic beans

I found this recipe a few weeks ago and have been making it over and over over. Try these and you'll find a new appreciation for lima beans. This is the kind of thing we could eat every night at our house. Bonus: they seem complicated, so Nate volunteers to do the dishes after.
I've made them with both kinds of cheese. We prefer the feta, but both are good. The recipe might look labor intensive, but they are actually really simple. Don't tell Nate.

it's not easy to be me.

Recently, I've been confronted with all of these tiny selfishnesses that pre-kids wouldn't have even been considered selfish. Sleep in on Saturday? Refusing to share with a known back-washer? Pee in privacy? These become little luxuries.

Leaving the house feels hard. I know it gets easier. But we are so in it right now. It's hard to write a post like this and not add a little qualifying statement. To say, it's worth it, or something like that. Of course it's worth it. But it's still ridiculously hard.

Love hurts. Ask Mister Baby.

big girl in a little coat.

A pregnant friend emailed to ask for my baby shopping advice. I suggested a swing, because both of my kids were swingers. I suggested a mei tai because: pretty. And I suggested an ergo because wearing an 18 lb. little Mister requires lumbar support. I also advised against buying a bunch of clothes because they don't stay tiny for very long and people will buy your baby clothes. Also there are hand-me-downs and thrift stores. Buy something pretty for yourself and let the Grandmas dress your babe.

But, as I was thinking about Angelina and her bean this morning, I realized that there is one exception to this rule: the coat. Every little kid should have a great coat. Your kid will wear it every day for most of the year. Plus, you can throw the coat over that dumptruck shirt she insists on wearing everyday and, wow, still cute. I especially love coats that look like something I would wear, only miniature. Claire's tiny pink peacoat has seen us through trips to the pumpkin patch and tulip fields for two seasons.
It is time for the girlie and the coat to part ways. Ang, if that bean in your belly is a girl, I'll send the coat your way with our love.

baggage

Some things I can't do since having children:
* Watch any of the Law and Orders.
* Maintain a clean car.
* Listen to someone's "I pushed for 2 minutes" birth story without inwardly cringing.
* Go to sleep without kissing two sweaty foreheads.
We were looking through old pictures last night from before Claire was born and Nate commented that she's been around now longer than we were married without kids. I am always grateful that my five year plan was cut short. Sweaty foreheads and all.

how you doin'?

Did I mention that Everett is the easiest baby on earth? He seriously never stops smiling. Even when he's covered in poo. Even when his big sister is throwing a tantrum. Even when it's two hours past his naptime and Mama has him strapped to a her back in the middle of Ikea. Best of all? He lets us dress him like a tiny accountant and never complains.
Claire has always been "slow to warm" but you, you work a room. Slow down with the growing, Mister. It's going too fast.