Kids do funny things. Kids also do things that embarrass their parents. Sometimes, they do things that are funny in one circumstance, and embarrassing in another. And then you think, Maybe we shouldn't have laughed quite so much the first time.
For instance.
Yes, of course I have an example. I have two toddlers, one of whom is just learning to speak, and hasn't gotten us in much trouble. Until, maybe, now.
It started out very innocently last weekend, after we went to dinner and tried to get ice cream at a nearby parlor. It was jam-packed, and we had to move on, but not before my little Imp got to meet the parlor's mascot, a picture (or statue?) of a cow outside the door. Although I didn't witness this personally, as I was dealing with a potty emergency involving my other toddler, I have it on good authority that he and the Crazy Cow hit it off quite spectacularly. The brief meeting ended with my son waving and saying, "Bye bye, cow!"
This has become his new mantra, and at random times, for no apparent reason, we will hear his little voice pipe, "Bye bye, cow. Bye bye, cow. Bye bye, cow." And he will say it over and over. Sometimes it comes out as, "Bye bye, dow." But we all know what he means. And we ooh and ahh and giggle over it every time, because it truly is adorable. He has a very precious little voice.
So, fast forward to tonight. My mom was in town again this weekend, and the five of us plus Craig's parents went to an excellent BBQ joint ("restaurant" is just not the right word) for dinner after church. After a rocky start that involved some sweet cornbread that looked (and tasted) like cake along with many tears when Mommy wouldn't let him have only that for dinner, the Imp managed to finish off about half of my BBQ pork, most of my cornbread, and half an ear of corn. We were all pleased with ourselves.
Especially him. He realized everyone thought it was funny when he would open his mouth wide whenever I would try to to take a bite of my food, and got a bit punchy from it.
He's a bit into being the center of attention. We may have a class clown in the making.
After dinner, I made the ubiquitous pregnant-woman-fifth-potty-trip-of-the-hour. The Imp was not very happy to see me go, but didn't make a fuss (I don't think). However, when I came out, he started chanting, "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" in his adorable little voice until (and for a little bit after) I picked him up.
Of course, the folks sitting around us were charmed. "He's so cute," a nice-looking young lady (probably only a few years younger than I am, but with a sweetness that made her seem younger than that*) at the next table commented, while smiling at him.
* I know that sounds a little weird. I tend to assess people - not try to judge their character, but just make observations - and in this case, my assessment was along the lines of, "She is probably close to my age, but something about her makes her seem younger."
I answered with something like, "Thank you. He knows it, too." while patting my son on the head indulgently. After all, he is the sweetest, cutest little boy you will ever see. Ever. I mean it. So take a good look now, honey, because this kind of cuteness only comes around once every seventy-six years or so.
Anyway.
The Imp and I were among the last of our group out the door, and as we left the people who were smiling at him, I told him to "say bye bye!" I almost always do this when we leave people who have taken notice of him, because his bye bye is just so cute, and everyone always loves it.
Well, usually.
Can you guess where this is going?
My impish little troublemaker looked at this nice lady and said, "Bye bye, cow!"
Blink.
Except, fortunately, this was one of the times it came out as, "Bye bye, dow!" so instead of looking offended, the young lady just looked a bit puzzled. And it could have just ended there, with me smiling and waving and leaving with at least a little dignity, but I knew what he had said, even if no one else did, and I got all flustered and embarrassed.
"No, no" I admonished him, "Just say 'bye bye!'"
"Bye bye, cow!" he repeated with the sort of stubborn innocence that makes you wonder if he doesn't really know what he's doing, after all.
At this point, I was both embarrassed and at the same time barely able to hold in my laughter, so I just apologized and darted out the door before she could figure out what he had said.
The poor girl probably thought I was laughing at her. Sigh.
Actually, she probably just thought I was one of the strangest people she'd ever encountered. And she was probably right. Double sigh.
I carried my little guy to the car amidst his chants of, "Bye bye, cow! Bye bye, cow!" and loaded him in, then had a good laugh about it with Craig and my mom. And the Imp told the cow goodbye off and on all the way home.
So my little Imp has already managed to inadvertently insult someone - and he can't even talk yet.
(Incidentally, I could go into how my three-year-old who never misses anything just happened to notice how funny we found it that the Imp had told some lady, "Bye bye, cow," and add in there how she tends to take anything that we think is funny and run so far with it we can no longer even hear her crazy little giggles. But I'll save that story for when it happens. When.)
Please pray for us. I think we may be in trouble.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
Battles
As parents, we are guaranteed battles with our children. We might not like it, but it's a given. It's going to happen.
Tonight, our house was a regular battlefield. At bedtime, of course, because all good battles occur at the end of the day, when everyone is tired and cranky.
Or maybe that's just me.
Two battles were fought - and lost - tonight. Were they worth fighting? In one case, probably not; in another, quite possibly. Was harm done in giving up the battle? Possibly. But was there another real option? Perhaps, but it wouldn't have been pretty, and may have done more damage than giving up.
So in continuing the spirit of airing my dirty laundry, I'm going to tell you about these battles, give you some details, and see what some of you might have done in my situation.
Battle #1
The first battle was with the Birdie, and it was by far the more traumatic of the two.
It was The Battle Of The Pajamas. Or, I Don't Want To Wear This One, I Want To Wear That One Instead.
My husband almost always gets the Birdie ready for bed. It's become such a habit that if he is around, she won't tolerate me doing it. Fine, we have two children, so he takes one and I take the other. And the habit is further cemented.
He got her into some pajamas, and she came and sat on the couch with me. They were cute pajamas. Princess pajamas. Really, it doesn't get much better than that, does it?
Apparently, it does.
As I was putting away the Imp's clean laundry, I heard the words that started it all: "I don't want to wear this to bed. I want to wear a nightgown."
The Birdie has roughly fifty sets of pajamas right now, thanks to grandparents, hand-me-downs from friends, and Christmas pajamas that she hasn't yet outgrown. About six of these are nightgowns. So you can imagine how often we end up with all nightgowns in the laundry, and nothing but shirt-and-pants pjs to wear. However, no matter what they look like, all she ever wants to wear are nightgowns.
So it wasn't really a shocker to me when I heard her say that, but we are trying to raise our children to make their choices and stick with them, and not change their clothes three times before they go to bed. Or fifty times.
My husband denied her request.
The battle began.
At one point she must have taken them off, because I heard, "If you're not wearing those pajamas when I come back in, I'll..." And she did put them back on.
Then my husband brushed her teeth. When they were done, she said, "I need to take my pants off. These are wet." She had peed in them. While I know accidents happen, this was just a bit too coincidental. I asked her whether she had peed in her pajama pants because she didn't want to wear them, and she replied, "Yes."
Sigh. At least she's honest.
Perhaps this would have been a good point to just go ahead and put her in a nightgown, since we had to put her in something else anyway, but it just didn't seem like a good time. It seemed like a particularly bad time, actually - one that would teach her that if she didn't want to wear something, all she had to do was pee in it and she would get her way. Hmm. Not really a lesson we want her to learn.
While I brushed the Imp's teeth and read him his bedtime story (actually, he read it to me for once, it was pretty cute) Daddy handled the pajama issue. I heard the sounds of war coming from the Birdie's room, and finally let the Imp sit in his chair and left to see what was happening. Daddy was leaving the Birdie's room, telling her she could "spend a few minutes in time out." She was standing by the bed in her underwear, sobbing.
I sent Daddy in to take the Imp his water, and went in with the Birdie. I held her in my lap while she sobbed, and sang to her until she calmed down. When she was calm, I tried to get her into the (clean) pajamas.
Absolutely Not.
I held her a little longer, at a loss, then made an executive decision: It was time to throw in the towel. We weren't getting anywhere with this. She was just getting more and more and more worked up. She was adamant that she wanted a nightgown, not flannel pj's, and I started to suspect that, more than a control issue, it was just that the nightgown is more comfortable to her. While I don't want her learning the lesson that if she just holds out long enough, Mommy and/or Daddy will eventually give in, it seemed silly to make her wear something that she so obviously did not want to wear and that probably was less comfortable for her.
So. Did I just reinforce a bad lesson there, or did I do what was necessary to keep the peace? Obviously, the real solution would have been to avoid the situation in the first place. The best way to do that is to let her choose her own nightclothes, which is what I had thought had happened in the first place, but in fact was not - Daddy chose the cute Princess jammies. And they were cute. Just not the right shape.
At what point should we have stopped fighting? Should we have given in when she first made the request? At that point, it sounded like toddler flightiness - "No, I want to wear this one instead" - which is something we'd rather not encourage, at least not when it leaves us piles of unnecessarily dirty laundry. When we chose to fight the battle, should we have seen it all the way through? Or does there, in fact, come a point where it is more harmful to keep fighting than it is to give it up?
I have no idea. But I do hope we can avoid that one again in the future. I hate fighting with her because I already don't get enough positive time with her anyway - she's Daddy's Girl through-and-through, and if he's available she doesn't want me to do much of anything with or for her (unless it means he can hold her while I do something for her). I love her so much, and I can't stand to see her so upset, especially when it's over something as silly as what she's going to wear to bed.
Battle #2
This battle was with the Imp, and it was not nearly as hard-fought, although perhaps it should have been. Perhaps it should have been even harder-fought. But it felt less like a battle than the pajama fiasco because it didn't appear, on the surface, to be a control issue.
One night this week, either two or three nights ago, the Imp fussed after we put him to bed. Daddy took baby duty and went in to him, calmed him down, and left, only to have the little guy start right back up. Daddy decided enough was enough and that he'd let him go.
About half an hour later (or less? Maybe it only felt that long.) his fussing had escalated into sobbing/screaming, and I went in to him. It took him a good two or three minutes to settle down even after I was holding him, with the residual shuddering sobs hitting him every few seconds. I held him and comforted him and rocked him while his crib soother played the Winnie-The-Pooh song over and over for fifteen minutes. He still seemed shaken after that, so I let it go another fifteen minutes before I put him back down. His nose was really stopped up, so I figured that was what had kept him from being able to fall asleep (in other words, he was sick, so he really did need the comfort).
The next night, it happened again, and instead of letting him go and get all worked up, I just went on in and held him for two rounds of the music, then put him down and he went on to sleep.
Again the next night (or so, depending on how many days ago it started). At this point, I'm starting to suspect the development of a bad habit. But it's easy for me to give in, because he's such a snugglebug that I actually enjoy sitting there and rocking him for half an hour. Plus, I know he's not going to want this forever. In fifteen (or ten, or five, or two) years, I'm going to look back on this and wish he would still let me do it. So in a way, it's hard not to love on him and snuggle him while he'll let me, because I know the day is coming when he's not going to want anything of it.
But tonight, when he started fussing almost the moment I left his room after putting him down for bed, I knew a habit was forming and that it was one I can't let develop, because it's just going to cause problems for everyone. So I asked Daddy to go in and soothe him, instead, because it's not the soothing he wants, it's Mommy.
Craig went in, then came back out maybe five minutes later. The Imp was silent, and Craig commented, "That was a pretty good job!" and went downstairs to play his video game.
Not a full minute had passed before the Imp had started fussing again. I sighed, and sat on the couch a bit longer. Do I go in or not? If I do, I'm reinforcing the habit, but if I don't, he's just going to scream and cry until he gets so worked up that he makes himself sick from it. Because we learned months ago that crying it out just doesn't seem to work for him.
So I caved.
The moment I opened the door, he stopped crying. "Bah-ee (Mommy)? Bah-ee? Bah-ee Bah-ee Bah-ee!"
And I melted.
You see, he usually cries until I pick him up, then snuggles his head on my shoulder. But this time, as soon as I opened the door, the little booger - the little Imp! - made it clear that he had been waiting for me the whole time. He wasn't crying because he wanted comfort, or because he felt sick, or because he couldn't fall asleep. He was crying because he wanted me to come in and hold him, and as soon as I opened the door he knew he was getting just that.
And that's just what he got. 30 minutes of being rocked by Mommy.
Sigh.
Not nearly as much of a "battle" as the one with the Birdie, but probably one with more lasting consequences. But how do we fight it? Do I let him cry it out? But I know that won't work. Do I hope this is a phase, and just go with it until he starts falling asleep on his own again? Or does Daddy just go in repeatedly, until the Imp gives up?
I don't know. I just know that when the only thing in the world my little guy wants is for Mommy to hold him, it's awfully hard for Mommy to not give it to him. Especially since I know from experience - with his big sister - that these days won't last forever, and someday I will miss them.
Tonight, our house was a regular battlefield. At bedtime, of course, because all good battles occur at the end of the day, when everyone is tired and cranky.
Or maybe that's just me.
Two battles were fought - and lost - tonight. Were they worth fighting? In one case, probably not; in another, quite possibly. Was harm done in giving up the battle? Possibly. But was there another real option? Perhaps, but it wouldn't have been pretty, and may have done more damage than giving up.
So in continuing the spirit of airing my dirty laundry, I'm going to tell you about these battles, give you some details, and see what some of you might have done in my situation.
Battle #1
The first battle was with the Birdie, and it was by far the more traumatic of the two.
It was The Battle Of The Pajamas. Or, I Don't Want To Wear This One, I Want To Wear That One Instead.
My husband almost always gets the Birdie ready for bed. It's become such a habit that if he is around, she won't tolerate me doing it. Fine, we have two children, so he takes one and I take the other. And the habit is further cemented.
He got her into some pajamas, and she came and sat on the couch with me. They were cute pajamas. Princess pajamas. Really, it doesn't get much better than that, does it?
Apparently, it does.
As I was putting away the Imp's clean laundry, I heard the words that started it all: "I don't want to wear this to bed. I want to wear a nightgown."
The Birdie has roughly fifty sets of pajamas right now, thanks to grandparents, hand-me-downs from friends, and Christmas pajamas that she hasn't yet outgrown. About six of these are nightgowns. So you can imagine how often we end up with all nightgowns in the laundry, and nothing but shirt-and-pants pjs to wear. However, no matter what they look like, all she ever wants to wear are nightgowns.
So it wasn't really a shocker to me when I heard her say that, but we are trying to raise our children to make their choices and stick with them, and not change their clothes three times before they go to bed. Or fifty times.
My husband denied her request.
The battle began.
At one point she must have taken them off, because I heard, "If you're not wearing those pajamas when I come back in, I'll..." And she did put them back on.
Then my husband brushed her teeth. When they were done, she said, "I need to take my pants off. These are wet." She had peed in them. While I know accidents happen, this was just a bit too coincidental. I asked her whether she had peed in her pajama pants because she didn't want to wear them, and she replied, "Yes."
Sigh. At least she's honest.
Perhaps this would have been a good point to just go ahead and put her in a nightgown, since we had to put her in something else anyway, but it just didn't seem like a good time. It seemed like a particularly bad time, actually - one that would teach her that if she didn't want to wear something, all she had to do was pee in it and she would get her way. Hmm. Not really a lesson we want her to learn.
While I brushed the Imp's teeth and read him his bedtime story (actually, he read it to me for once, it was pretty cute) Daddy handled the pajama issue. I heard the sounds of war coming from the Birdie's room, and finally let the Imp sit in his chair and left to see what was happening. Daddy was leaving the Birdie's room, telling her she could "spend a few minutes in time out." She was standing by the bed in her underwear, sobbing.
I sent Daddy in to take the Imp his water, and went in with the Birdie. I held her in my lap while she sobbed, and sang to her until she calmed down. When she was calm, I tried to get her into the (clean) pajamas.
Absolutely Not.
I held her a little longer, at a loss, then made an executive decision: It was time to throw in the towel. We weren't getting anywhere with this. She was just getting more and more and more worked up. She was adamant that she wanted a nightgown, not flannel pj's, and I started to suspect that, more than a control issue, it was just that the nightgown is more comfortable to her. While I don't want her learning the lesson that if she just holds out long enough, Mommy and/or Daddy will eventually give in, it seemed silly to make her wear something that she so obviously did not want to wear and that probably was less comfortable for her.
So. Did I just reinforce a bad lesson there, or did I do what was necessary to keep the peace? Obviously, the real solution would have been to avoid the situation in the first place. The best way to do that is to let her choose her own nightclothes, which is what I had thought had happened in the first place, but in fact was not - Daddy chose the cute Princess jammies. And they were cute. Just not the right shape.
At what point should we have stopped fighting? Should we have given in when she first made the request? At that point, it sounded like toddler flightiness - "No, I want to wear this one instead" - which is something we'd rather not encourage, at least not when it leaves us piles of unnecessarily dirty laundry. When we chose to fight the battle, should we have seen it all the way through? Or does there, in fact, come a point where it is more harmful to keep fighting than it is to give it up?
I have no idea. But I do hope we can avoid that one again in the future. I hate fighting with her because I already don't get enough positive time with her anyway - she's Daddy's Girl through-and-through, and if he's available she doesn't want me to do much of anything with or for her (unless it means he can hold her while I do something for her). I love her so much, and I can't stand to see her so upset, especially when it's over something as silly as what she's going to wear to bed.
Battle #2
This battle was with the Imp, and it was not nearly as hard-fought, although perhaps it should have been. Perhaps it should have been even harder-fought. But it felt less like a battle than the pajama fiasco because it didn't appear, on the surface, to be a control issue.
One night this week, either two or three nights ago, the Imp fussed after we put him to bed. Daddy took baby duty and went in to him, calmed him down, and left, only to have the little guy start right back up. Daddy decided enough was enough and that he'd let him go.
About half an hour later (or less? Maybe it only felt that long.) his fussing had escalated into sobbing/screaming, and I went in to him. It took him a good two or three minutes to settle down even after I was holding him, with the residual shuddering sobs hitting him every few seconds. I held him and comforted him and rocked him while his crib soother played the Winnie-The-Pooh song over and over for fifteen minutes. He still seemed shaken after that, so I let it go another fifteen minutes before I put him back down. His nose was really stopped up, so I figured that was what had kept him from being able to fall asleep (in other words, he was sick, so he really did need the comfort).
The next night, it happened again, and instead of letting him go and get all worked up, I just went on in and held him for two rounds of the music, then put him down and he went on to sleep.
Again the next night (or so, depending on how many days ago it started). At this point, I'm starting to suspect the development of a bad habit. But it's easy for me to give in, because he's such a snugglebug that I actually enjoy sitting there and rocking him for half an hour. Plus, I know he's not going to want this forever. In fifteen (or ten, or five, or two) years, I'm going to look back on this and wish he would still let me do it. So in a way, it's hard not to love on him and snuggle him while he'll let me, because I know the day is coming when he's not going to want anything of it.
But tonight, when he started fussing almost the moment I left his room after putting him down for bed, I knew a habit was forming and that it was one I can't let develop, because it's just going to cause problems for everyone. So I asked Daddy to go in and soothe him, instead, because it's not the soothing he wants, it's Mommy.
Craig went in, then came back out maybe five minutes later. The Imp was silent, and Craig commented, "That was a pretty good job!" and went downstairs to play his video game.
Not a full minute had passed before the Imp had started fussing again. I sighed, and sat on the couch a bit longer. Do I go in or not? If I do, I'm reinforcing the habit, but if I don't, he's just going to scream and cry until he gets so worked up that he makes himself sick from it. Because we learned months ago that crying it out just doesn't seem to work for him.
So I caved.
The moment I opened the door, he stopped crying. "Bah-ee (Mommy)? Bah-ee? Bah-ee Bah-ee Bah-ee!"
And I melted.
You see, he usually cries until I pick him up, then snuggles his head on my shoulder. But this time, as soon as I opened the door, the little booger - the little Imp! - made it clear that he had been waiting for me the whole time. He wasn't crying because he wanted comfort, or because he felt sick, or because he couldn't fall asleep. He was crying because he wanted me to come in and hold him, and as soon as I opened the door he knew he was getting just that.
And that's just what he got. 30 minutes of being rocked by Mommy.
Sigh.
Not nearly as much of a "battle" as the one with the Birdie, but probably one with more lasting consequences. But how do we fight it? Do I let him cry it out? But I know that won't work. Do I hope this is a phase, and just go with it until he starts falling asleep on his own again? Or does Daddy just go in repeatedly, until the Imp gives up?
I don't know. I just know that when the only thing in the world my little guy wants is for Mommy to hold him, it's awfully hard for Mommy to not give it to him. Especially since I know from experience - with his big sister - that these days won't last forever, and someday I will miss them.
Just Peachy
This will just be a little post, a blogette, or something like that. I can't resist sharing a funny little conversation I had in the car with the Birdie on Wednesday night.
From the back seat, I hear a somewhat startling question. "What color is the Imp?"
Me: [thinking: they really do notice. They just don't care.] I turn the question back on her, as I have learned to do when she asks something unexpected like that. "What color is the Imp?"
Her: [thoughtfully] "He's kind of a peach color."
Me: [blink] "Why, yes, he is."
Her: [pause] "We eat peaches."
Me: [blink. blink.] "Why, yes, we do eat peaches." [pause] "But we don't eat the Imp."
Her: [giggling] "Nooooo. That's silly!"
Well, good. I'm glad we got that cleared up!
I muttered to Craig, who was driving, "Well, that's one word for it."
In typical Craig style, he responded something about how cannibalism is usually frowned upon.
Little piping voice: "What did Daddy say?"
I'll let you explain that one, Honey.
From the back seat, I hear a somewhat startling question. "What color is the Imp?"
Me: [thinking: they really do notice. They just don't care.] I turn the question back on her, as I have learned to do when she asks something unexpected like that. "What color is the Imp?"
Her: [thoughtfully] "He's kind of a peach color."
Me: [blink] "Why, yes, he is."
Her: [pause] "We eat peaches."
Me: [blink. blink.] "Why, yes, we do eat peaches." [pause] "But we don't eat the Imp."
Her: [giggling] "Nooooo. That's silly!"
Well, good. I'm glad we got that cleared up!
I muttered to Craig, who was driving, "Well, that's one word for it."
In typical Craig style, he responded something about how cannibalism is usually frowned upon.
Little piping voice: "What did Daddy say?"
I'll let you explain that one, Honey.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Dirty Little Secret
Okay, I lied. It's not that little. And for anyone who knows me at all, it's not a secret.
I am not a housekeeper.
No, let's be real here. In the spirit of, you know, bold blogging and all. I am a slob.
Don't judge me. We can't all be perfect. We all have our dirty little secrets. Mine just happens to be, well, not so little.
In the background of many of my pictures, you have probably noticed toys lying around. This is not the type of thing I'm talking about, because, let's face it, who can keep their floors toy-free all the time? It just isn't possible with kids. It isn't. And if you're trying to tell me otherwise, I assure you I'm standing here with my hands over my ears and humming. I'm not listening!
This is not something that is new to me. I was one of those kids with the bedroom that made my mom want to pull her hair out. She earned every gray hair that she has.And she has more of them than you realize. It was awful. I'd wonder how I lived that way, except I still do. More clothing on the floors than in the drawers, and everything that was in the drawers was stuffed, not folded (which is probably why most of my clothes wouldn't fit into them). Piles of...who knows what...on the floor of my closet. Bags...blankets...toys...trash (especially tags off of new clothing, but do those really count?)...everywhere. You get the picture.
So, of course, the worst thing I could hear from my mom was, "Go clean your room." This translated to, "Go spend all day in your room picking one thing up and putting it somewhere else it doesn't fit until it's time to go to bed. Or sneak and read a book, but don't let me catch you, or you'll be in big trouble." On the rare occasions when I actually, successfully cleaned my room, within five minutes*, it would look like a tornado had struck it.
* Okay, I'm exaggerating. It may have been as many as ten or fifteen.
These days, I have gotten a little bit better. Living with someone else (and having company from time to time) can do that to you. But we still have our problem areas. Mostly, it's the out-of-the-way rooms with doors, where, during a last minute frantic cleaning session, we can toss all of the stuff that's in the way and make the main rooms look decent. (Normal people would use a closet, but we have so much random junk that it takes entire rooms to contain it all. This has gotten infinitely better since my brother-in-law put in an easier access door to our attic, but it's still an issue.)
It depends on where we're cleaning, but the worst rooms tend to be the "office" and...our bedroom.
Our bedroom? Really? Why? I mean...shouldn't a bedroom be, well, peaceful? Restful? Clean?
Well, yes, of course. But you know what else it is? It's private. When you have company, people don't usually go in it unless the door is open (which ours never is, to keep the cats off ofCraig's pillow the bed). So, when you have a room that's never seen right off of a room that's often used for company...it becomes a convenient dumping ground. And you end up with something like this:
---------------
Edited: Craig informed me, after reading this, that the electronic equipment under his nightstand does belong to us. I was confusing it with something we borrowed several years ago, and apparently did give back. Thank goodness. I was really feeling guilty about that.
I am not a housekeeper.
No, let's be real here. In the spirit of, you know, bold blogging and all. I am a slob.
Don't judge me. We can't all be perfect. We all have our dirty little secrets. Mine just happens to be, well, not so little.
In the background of many of my pictures, you have probably noticed toys lying around. This is not the type of thing I'm talking about, because, let's face it, who can keep their floors toy-free all the time? It just isn't possible with kids. It isn't. And if you're trying to tell me otherwise, I assure you I'm standing here with my hands over my ears and humming. I'm not listening!
This is not something that is new to me. I was one of those kids with the bedroom that made my mom want to pull her hair out. She earned every gray hair that she has.
So, of course, the worst thing I could hear from my mom was, "Go clean your room." This translated to, "Go spend all day in your room picking one thing up and putting it somewhere else it doesn't fit until it's time to go to bed. Or sneak and read a book, but don't let me catch you, or you'll be in big trouble." On the rare occasions when I actually, successfully cleaned my room, within five minutes*, it would look like a tornado had struck it.
* Okay, I'm exaggerating. It may have been as many as ten or fifteen.
These days, I have gotten a little bit better. Living with someone else (and having company from time to time) can do that to you. But we still have our problem areas. Mostly, it's the out-of-the-way rooms with doors, where, during a last minute frantic cleaning session, we can toss all of the stuff that's in the way and make the main rooms look decent. (Normal people would use a closet, but we have so much random junk that it takes entire rooms to contain it all. This has gotten infinitely better since my brother-in-law put in an easier access door to our attic, but it's still an issue.)
It depends on where we're cleaning, but the worst rooms tend to be the "office" and...our bedroom.
Our bedroom? Really? Why? I mean...shouldn't a bedroom be, well, peaceful? Restful? Clean?
Well, yes, of course. But you know what else it is? It's private. When you have company, people don't usually go in it unless the door is open (which ours never is, to keep the cats off of
The bed hasn't been made in weeks (and I guarantee Craig was the last one to do it). There is a random seat cushion leaning against the end of the bed. And I'm not going to get into what is on the nightstands, but we don't currently have a trash can in our bedroom and we've both had colds recently, so you can probably imagine. And then wish you hadn't.
Or this:
My favorite thing here is the baby seat in the middle of the room. It's broken, by the way, and we haven't used it since...oh, November or December. 2008. (But we're going to try to fix it. Because it worked so well for the Imp, and...I can't stand to throw anything away. Nooooo, really?) There are also boxes of clothing that I'd put away at one time, but which migrated back out of the closet for some reason. No, actually the little box has a good excuse - it's maternity stuff. But the big box? I have no idea why it's out. And the white shirt on top of it? Not even mine. Or Craig's. (It's my mom's, and she took it home with her today.)
Which reminds me to give her some HUGE credit, because without her help, our room would still look like that. She came in today and made sure the kids didn't kill themselves or each other watched the kids upstairs while Craig and I worked downstairs. Lifesaver. An extra set of hands can make all the difference. So, thank you, Mom. Because I know you read this.
And I'm sorry about the gray hair comment. Your hair looks very nice.
Or this:
I think this one is my personal favorite. It shows very clearly my tendency to say, "Oh, I don't feel like hanging this up right now, but I'll come back and do it later." And then months will pass, and by the time I admit to myself that I was lying when I said that, it will have mutated into something scary. And eaten a rocking chair. (Can you see it? It's sandwiched between the wardrobe and the chest-o-drawers, which, incidentally, yes, I know do not match, but I love them both, so they both stay.)
I decided yesterday morning that I couldn't take it anymore, and I called Mom and asked her to come up. She dropped everything at a moment's notice and drove an hour and a half to stay overnight with us and watch the kids while we tried to make our house a little bit more livable. Amazingly enough, I think we succeeded.
The way a bed is supposed to look. Made up, with fifty-million pillows at the head and a hand-made (by, you guessed it, my awesome mom) afghan at the foot. The room isn't perfect. There's still a random baseball glove on top of a book and a printed out e-mail on top of some sort of electronic device that I, um, don't think is ours underneath the nightstand. And a random bottle of generic NyQuil on top of it, but I guess my husband left that there on purpose. Two pictures on the floor, waiting to be hung on the wall. And the photo collage above the bed is one photo short. But it's so much better than it was before.
This angle shows that there really was a floor under all that junk! A few minutes ago, I walked around my bed, and had to do a double-take when I realized I didn't have to step around boxes and baby seats anymore. (Ignore the random Tigger pillow on top of our laundry basket. Like I said, it's not perfect.)
And, look, oh my gosh, the clothes really did eat the chair! Or, well, no. We moved it upstairs so I'd have something in the Imp's room that I could sit in and get up out of, because his PBK Anywhere Chair just isn't working for me anymore. Especially at 1 a.m. when I'm trying to get him to go back to sleep. It's hard to get up out of something that's 1 foot off the ground without any hands even when you're not five-and-a-half months pregnant.
Please ignore the random bottle of...champagne? I think. Sitting beside the wardrobe. I've had it for...um...wow. Three years? More? It was a gift at work for a "job well done" (each person on the project got one) while I was pregnant with the Birdie...and I've never really gotten around to opening it, what with one baby after breastfeeding after another baby after breastfeeding after another. Maybe I'll get to drink it. Eventually. Say, in another three years. They are supposed to get better with age, right? Right? Well, I guess we'll see.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed that glimpse into my not-so-perfect life. Next week, I'll be posting a video of me trying to get up out of the Anywhere Chair while holding the Imp, his cup, his Larry the Cucumber, and a book.
Or, then again, maybe not.
---------------
Edited: Craig informed me, after reading this, that the electronic equipment under his nightstand does belong to us. I was confusing it with something we borrowed several years ago, and apparently did give back. Thank goodness. I was really feeling guilty about that.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Trip To Bernheim - 3/7/10
Some of my favorite photos from a road trip we took with the kids last weekend.
I love having my sister in the tree with me!
Or...maybe not.
Bitty Soliloquy.
Sweet little Imp.
Running, running! So much freedom!
Lying on the ground, "sobbing." Just like Snow White does, in the Disney movie, after the Huntsman tells her to run away. Remember that? So I asked her, "Are you Snow White?"
"No, I'm just pretending!" Silly Mommy. Can't you tell?
Coloring in the Visitors Center.
Starting to get sleepy.
Time to go home.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Baby Bumblebee
I'm bringin' home a baby bumblebee...won't my mommy be so proud of me?
Well, we aren't bringing home our Baby Bumblebee quite yet, but we did get a look at her last Thursday.
And yes, I did say her. We found out on Thursday that our Birdie and our Imp are getting a little sister!
The Birdie was quite excited when we told her Thursday afternoon, although not in the least surprised, which was, well, surprising, since we hadn't yet told her that she was getting a new little sibling. Somehow, though, I think she just knew.
She was full of questions when she found out. Remarkably intuitive questions, at least in my opinion.
"Is she in Mommy's tummy?" (First thing she said when we told her. I thought this would be a stumbling block - "Did Mommy eat the baby?" - but I guess she picked up somewhere on her own that babies grow in Mommies' tummies.)
"What's her name?"
"I'm going to sing her a song!" And she got up and danced around the room, singing something about her sister and how Valentine's Day is her favorite holiday and a few other things that I couldn't understand. It was precious.
Then, just as I was patting myself on the back for raising such an amazing little girl who understands everything there is to know without having to explain it, she asked, "Can I see her?"
And pretty much once a day since then, she will give Baby Bumblebee a hug, and ask if she's going to come out today. We have to remind her that it will be a long time, still. This morning, she told me that she wanted Baby Bumblebee to stay home when I went to work. But I could leave, that was okay.
Ahhh, I'm feeling the love.
The Imp, by the way, is oblivious. I'm sure he will remain blissfully unaware until the day that we bring home a tiny squalling thing that hogs Mommy for most of the day. I'mcurious interested apprehensive worried terrified to see how he reacts when Mommy acquires a new appendage (and it's not him).
But we are excited about our little girl on the way, who, incidentally, has existed in our minds and our hearts ever since we were expecting the Birdie and we came up with four names (two girls' names and two boys' names). Yes, indeed. When we were expecting baby #1, we decided on 4 names - a 1st choice girl's name, a 2nd choice girl's name*, a 1st choice boy's name, and a 2nd choice boy's name. And when we came up with those names, all 4 of those babies became real people in my mind, even though three of them didn't exist yet, and at the time we didn't know "who" #1 was. The #2 boy's name has changed a bit since we originally came up with the names, but none of the others did, and now I'm just as attached to that name (and that little boy) as I have been with each of the others. So as long as #4 is a boy, everything will be perfect!
What? You mean you can't plan it out like that? Really? Haha. So far, we have been very lucky and it has worked out the way we "planned" (girl-boy-girl) - but if something doesn't go according to our plan...well, who are we to make plans, anyway? (And we're already talking about another girl's name, just in case.)
Let's just try not to get too attached to this name, because we're really not planning a #5.
* Our #2 girl's name really was only 2nd choice in Craig's mind - honestly, I'd have been extremely disappointed if we hadn't gotten to use it, because it incorporates a special part of my name that my mom shares, too, so you can imagine how ecstatic I am now.
Well, we aren't bringing home our Baby Bumblebee quite yet, but we did get a look at her last Thursday.
And yes, I did say her. We found out on Thursday that our Birdie and our Imp are getting a little sister!
The Birdie was quite excited when we told her Thursday afternoon, although not in the least surprised, which was, well, surprising, since we hadn't yet told her that she was getting a new little sibling. Somehow, though, I think she just knew.
She was full of questions when she found out. Remarkably intuitive questions, at least in my opinion.
"Is she in Mommy's tummy?" (First thing she said when we told her. I thought this would be a stumbling block - "Did Mommy eat the baby?" - but I guess she picked up somewhere on her own that babies grow in Mommies' tummies.)
"What's her name?"
"I'm going to sing her a song!" And she got up and danced around the room, singing something about her sister and how Valentine's Day is her favorite holiday and a few other things that I couldn't understand. It was precious.
Then, just as I was patting myself on the back for raising such an amazing little girl who understands everything there is to know without having to explain it, she asked, "Can I see her?"
And pretty much once a day since then, she will give Baby Bumblebee a hug, and ask if she's going to come out today. We have to remind her that it will be a long time, still. This morning, she told me that she wanted Baby Bumblebee to stay home when I went to work. But I could leave, that was okay.
Ahhh, I'm feeling the love.
The Imp, by the way, is oblivious. I'm sure he will remain blissfully unaware until the day that we bring home a tiny squalling thing that hogs Mommy for most of the day. I'm
But we are excited about our little girl on the way, who, incidentally, has existed in our minds and our hearts ever since we were expecting the Birdie and we came up with four names (two girls' names and two boys' names). Yes, indeed. When we were expecting baby #1, we decided on 4 names - a 1st choice girl's name, a 2nd choice girl's name*, a 1st choice boy's name, and a 2nd choice boy's name. And when we came up with those names, all 4 of those babies became real people in my mind, even though three of them didn't exist yet, and at the time we didn't know "who" #1 was. The #2 boy's name has changed a bit since we originally came up with the names, but none of the others did, and now I'm just as attached to that name (and that little boy) as I have been with each of the others. So as long as #4 is a boy, everything will be perfect!
What? You mean you can't plan it out like that? Really? Haha. So far, we have been very lucky and it has worked out the way we "planned" (girl-boy-girl) - but if something doesn't go according to our plan...well, who are we to make plans, anyway? (And we're already talking about another girl's name, just in case.)
Let's just try not to get too attached to this name, because we're really not planning a #5.
* Our #2 girl's name really was only 2nd choice in Craig's mind - honestly, I'd have been extremely disappointed if we hadn't gotten to use it, because it incorporates a special part of my name that my mom shares, too, so you can imagine how ecstatic I am now.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Birth Story: The Imp
Today I am joining Mama M.'s Birthstory Blog Hop with the story from when my son was born. Sadly, I can't find my daughter's birth story (although I am still looking), but if/when I find it, I will share that also.
My Imp was born on June 4, 2008, at 6:13 p.m. He was 6 lbs, 9 oz. and 19.5 in. long.
I was scheduled for an elective induction on June 4th. I chose that date because it was past 39 weeks (39w2d) and my doctor was on call. Interestingly, the Imp was due on a Monday and induced and born on a Wednesday, exactly the same as his sister, a year-and-a-half earlier.
As with the Birdie, I was told to call Labor & Delivery at 5-in-the-morning (yuk) to find out when they wanted me to come in. With the Birdie, they had me come in right away, and that was what I expected this time. Much to my disappointment, the girl I spoke to told me they were having a "computer glitch" and to call back at 7. I was not happy, and there were a few tears.
At 7:00, I called back, certain they'd tell me to come in within the next couple of hours. (By 9:00 at the worst, I figured.) The nurse told me, "Yes, you're on hold for a room, and we'll call you when one is available." What?! That was not what the first nurse had told me. There wasn't a room for me at all? Now there were a lot of tears.
I called again at 9:00 because I didn't like being at their mercy for a phone call, and the (same, sigh) nurse told me that I was still on hold, but that I was "next on the list," which meant I was going to get in that day (at that point, I had been certain it wasn't going to happen). So I waited a bit more, and just before 10:00, the nurse called and told me to come on in. Yay! (When I got there, the same nurse that I had been bugging with phone calls was the one who checked me in, but at least she was nice about it.)
They got me hooked up to an IV around 10:45 and started pitocin around 11:15. Right after that, my doctor went ahead and broke my water. I was still at 3-4 cm at this point. I'm not sure when I got the epidural, but it wasn't long after that, probably at 12-something. That wasn't fun. Since my contractions really weren't all that bad at that point, I was focused entirely on the sensation of a catheter being put into my spine, which was NOT pleasant. And yes, you CAN feel it going in. I whined a lot, although the doctor did commend me for doing a "good job" (meaning I held still). My response was, "Like I'm NOT going to hold still when you're putting something into my spine!" It did feel like it was off to the left a little bit, and I think that I was right about that because my left side ended up being MUCH more numb than my right side the whole time. Truly, I HATE the epidural, but I wouldn't dare go through labor without one.
The entire afternoon was spent waiting, and waiting and waiting. Starting around 4:30 or so, I could feel the Imp really low. It didn't feel like I needed to push, but it seemed like he was getting close. The nurse checked me at 5:00 and I was 7 cm. The nurse said things could go quickly from there because his head was pretty low, but I was pretty much expecting him to be born fairly close to 8 p.m. because of the whole 1 cm/hour once you’re in active labor thing. She told me to call her back in there if the pressure got worse.
Ten minutes later, the pressure got worse. I knew I was crazy for calling the nurse back, but I did, anyway. She checked me at 5:15 and said, "Your cervix is almost gone, and his head is right there!" I was shocked – I had gone from 7 cm to ready to have a baby in 15 minutes. How scary is that? I mean, if for some reason I wasn't ready, or I if told Craig, "I'm only 7 cm, why don't you get dinner now while there's still time?" Which, of course, I didn't, but still - it was very eye-opening.
My doctor and I had decided ahead of time that we'd let him "labor down" on his own instead of having me push right away. Turned out I didn't have a choice because she had just started someone else’s c-section at 5:15 so she wasn't available to "catch" him, anyway. The nurse said the timing would be "just right," that my doctor would do the c-section then come in and deliver the baby.
So we waited for her, and waited, and waited some more. It felt like an eternity, and I could feel him getting lower and lower with each contraction. Finally, around 6:05 the nurse came in and checked me again. She said something along the lines of, "Oh, yeah, he's right there!" I asked her how far in he actually was, and she measured it on her finger - about the distance to her first knuckle, roughly an inch. Again, I was shocked. And WHERE was my doctor?
At this point, the room became a blur of nurses setting up stuff for the Imp's imminent arrival. My mom took away my cell phone (yes, I'd been texting updates to people this whole time) and the L&D nurse got me ready to push. She had Craig get on one leg and, to my surprise, my mom get on my other leg (at that point, I was beyond being uncomfortable about it – but it was a shame because Mom had been going to take pictures of the Imp coming out, although from a less graphic angle than straight-on. Since they were digital pictures, I figured I could delete anything that made me uncomfortable.) The nurse had me do a "practice push," I guess to see how things were going to work, and right after that, my doctor came in. I pushed for one contraction, and she said he was close, and then on the second contraction, I started pushing and she said, "Okay, he's out!" Amazing. And I guess because of the way the epidural was working, this time I actually felt him come out of my belly - not the pain, but the release of pressure as he came out. It felt really weird, but in a good way because the pressure was causing some nausea that stopped when he came out.
Unlike with the Birdie, they immediately put him on my chest, before he'd been cleaned up, and I got to hold him right away. I was shocked that he was blue-ish, although I guess this is normal because he was crying and he pinked up right away when the nurse rubbed him. It was amazing to get to hold my little boy right away. After I got to hold him for a few minutes and everyone got some pictures, they took him off to clean him up, measure him, and weigh him (he was actually 6 lbs 8.8 oz), then gave him back to me and everyone except family cleared out and I got to nurse him. That, also, was amazing. I didn't get to nurse the Birdie right away because I was shaking/nauseated and I had to be drugged up immediately. He nursed so well right from the start, and he's been good at it ever since.
Oddly, I started having the shaking and nausea right after I finished nursing him and they took him away. I threw up a couple of times, and they gave me phenergan and carted me off to the mother-baby unit. I was in a lot of pain that night overnight, I guess from him being in the birth canal for so long (the pain was in my butt) so they gave him a bottle overnight because I didn't feel like I could sit up to nurse him. I was better by that morning, though, and the bottle didn't hurt breastfeeding any.
We went home on Friday morning, and his weight was still good at 6 lbs 4 oz. At the pediatrician the next morning, he had dropped to 6 lbs even (my guess would be that he didn't pass most of the meconium until Friday because I didn't change any dirty diapers until then, and that caused his weight to drop more after we went home than before). On Monday, he was back up to 6 lbs 4 oz, and by the following Friday, he was 6 lbs 10 oz, so he did a great job of making up for what he lost!
The last paragraph was from when I wrote this up, I guess when he was a month or so old. I'm leaving it in for nostalgia's sake.
He has been an amazing baby. So far, he rarely cries - just during some diaper changes or if he gets hungry and someone other than me is holding him. He's very easy to calm - usually if I pick him up he will quiet right down. And he has been really good on me with sleeping. He sleeps in a little glider beside my bed and as long as I don't doze off while I'm nursing him overnight, he'll let me sleep for several hours at a time lying down in my bed.
I am so blessed to have my two beautiful babies, the Imp (6/4/2008) and my Bitty Birdie (12/13/2006)!
My Imp was born on June 4, 2008, at 6:13 p.m. He was 6 lbs, 9 oz. and 19.5 in. long.
I was scheduled for an elective induction on June 4th. I chose that date because it was past 39 weeks (39w2d) and my doctor was on call. Interestingly, the Imp was due on a Monday and induced and born on a Wednesday, exactly the same as his sister, a year-and-a-half earlier.
As with the Birdie, I was told to call Labor & Delivery at 5-in-the-morning (yuk) to find out when they wanted me to come in. With the Birdie, they had me come in right away, and that was what I expected this time. Much to my disappointment, the girl I spoke to told me they were having a "computer glitch" and to call back at 7. I was not happy, and there were a few tears.
At 7:00, I called back, certain they'd tell me to come in within the next couple of hours. (By 9:00 at the worst, I figured.) The nurse told me, "Yes, you're on hold for a room, and we'll call you when one is available." What?! That was not what the first nurse had told me. There wasn't a room for me at all? Now there were a lot of tears.
I called again at 9:00 because I didn't like being at their mercy for a phone call, and the (same, sigh) nurse told me that I was still on hold, but that I was "next on the list," which meant I was going to get in that day (at that point, I had been certain it wasn't going to happen). So I waited a bit more, and just before 10:00, the nurse called and told me to come on in. Yay! (When I got there, the same nurse that I had been bugging with phone calls was the one who checked me in, but at least she was nice about it.)
They got me hooked up to an IV around 10:45 and started pitocin around 11:15. Right after that, my doctor went ahead and broke my water. I was still at 3-4 cm at this point. I'm not sure when I got the epidural, but it wasn't long after that, probably at 12-something. That wasn't fun. Since my contractions really weren't all that bad at that point, I was focused entirely on the sensation of a catheter being put into my spine, which was NOT pleasant. And yes, you CAN feel it going in. I whined a lot, although the doctor did commend me for doing a "good job" (meaning I held still). My response was, "Like I'm NOT going to hold still when you're putting something into my spine!" It did feel like it was off to the left a little bit, and I think that I was right about that because my left side ended up being MUCH more numb than my right side the whole time. Truly, I HATE the epidural, but I wouldn't dare go through labor without one.
The entire afternoon was spent waiting, and waiting and waiting. Starting around 4:30 or so, I could feel the Imp really low. It didn't feel like I needed to push, but it seemed like he was getting close. The nurse checked me at 5:00 and I was 7 cm. The nurse said things could go quickly from there because his head was pretty low, but I was pretty much expecting him to be born fairly close to 8 p.m. because of the whole 1 cm/hour once you’re in active labor thing. She told me to call her back in there if the pressure got worse.
Ten minutes later, the pressure got worse. I knew I was crazy for calling the nurse back, but I did, anyway. She checked me at 5:15 and said, "Your cervix is almost gone, and his head is right there!" I was shocked – I had gone from 7 cm to ready to have a baby in 15 minutes. How scary is that? I mean, if for some reason I wasn't ready, or I if told Craig, "I'm only 7 cm, why don't you get dinner now while there's still time?" Which, of course, I didn't, but still - it was very eye-opening.
My doctor and I had decided ahead of time that we'd let him "labor down" on his own instead of having me push right away. Turned out I didn't have a choice because she had just started someone else’s c-section at 5:15 so she wasn't available to "catch" him, anyway. The nurse said the timing would be "just right," that my doctor would do the c-section then come in and deliver the baby.
So we waited for her, and waited, and waited some more. It felt like an eternity, and I could feel him getting lower and lower with each contraction. Finally, around 6:05 the nurse came in and checked me again. She said something along the lines of, "Oh, yeah, he's right there!" I asked her how far in he actually was, and she measured it on her finger - about the distance to her first knuckle, roughly an inch. Again, I was shocked. And WHERE was my doctor?
At this point, the room became a blur of nurses setting up stuff for the Imp's imminent arrival. My mom took away my cell phone (yes, I'd been texting updates to people this whole time) and the L&D nurse got me ready to push. She had Craig get on one leg and, to my surprise, my mom get on my other leg (at that point, I was beyond being uncomfortable about it – but it was a shame because Mom had been going to take pictures of the Imp coming out, although from a less graphic angle than straight-on. Since they were digital pictures, I figured I could delete anything that made me uncomfortable.) The nurse had me do a "practice push," I guess to see how things were going to work, and right after that, my doctor came in. I pushed for one contraction, and she said he was close, and then on the second contraction, I started pushing and she said, "Okay, he's out!" Amazing. And I guess because of the way the epidural was working, this time I actually felt him come out of my belly - not the pain, but the release of pressure as he came out. It felt really weird, but in a good way because the pressure was causing some nausea that stopped when he came out.
Unlike with the Birdie, they immediately put him on my chest, before he'd been cleaned up, and I got to hold him right away. I was shocked that he was blue-ish, although I guess this is normal because he was crying and he pinked up right away when the nurse rubbed him. It was amazing to get to hold my little boy right away. After I got to hold him for a few minutes and everyone got some pictures, they took him off to clean him up, measure him, and weigh him (he was actually 6 lbs 8.8 oz), then gave him back to me and everyone except family cleared out and I got to nurse him. That, also, was amazing. I didn't get to nurse the Birdie right away because I was shaking/nauseated and I had to be drugged up immediately. He nursed so well right from the start, and he's been good at it ever since.
Oddly, I started having the shaking and nausea right after I finished nursing him and they took him away. I threw up a couple of times, and they gave me phenergan and carted me off to the mother-baby unit. I was in a lot of pain that night overnight, I guess from him being in the birth canal for so long (the pain was in my butt) so they gave him a bottle overnight because I didn't feel like I could sit up to nurse him. I was better by that morning, though, and the bottle didn't hurt breastfeeding any.
We went home on Friday morning, and his weight was still good at 6 lbs 4 oz. At the pediatrician the next morning, he had dropped to 6 lbs even (my guess would be that he didn't pass most of the meconium until Friday because I didn't change any dirty diapers until then, and that caused his weight to drop more after we went home than before). On Monday, he was back up to 6 lbs 4 oz, and by the following Friday, he was 6 lbs 10 oz, so he did a great job of making up for what he lost!
The last paragraph was from when I wrote this up, I guess when he was a month or so old. I'm leaving it in for nostalgia's sake.
He has been an amazing baby. So far, he rarely cries - just during some diaper changes or if he gets hungry and someone other than me is holding him. He's very easy to calm - usually if I pick him up he will quiet right down. And he has been really good on me with sleeping. He sleeps in a little glider beside my bed and as long as I don't doze off while I'm nursing him overnight, he'll let me sleep for several hours at a time lying down in my bed.
I am so blessed to have my two beautiful babies, the Imp (6/4/2008) and my Bitty Birdie (12/13/2006)!
First photo (or one of them):
First kiss from his sister:
3 Months Old:
6 months old:
9 Months Old:
1 year old:
18 Months Old:
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