Directed at no one in particular....

There is something I just need to say, to, um, whoever might be paying attention, since you know, I'm not sleeping.

I don't want to offend anyone, but seriously, a lot of "you" out there in media/internet/blogging land are kind of offending me.

And TRUST me when I tell you I am not one to get easily offended.

Apparently there are a lot, and I do mean A LOT of mother's out there who want to give their children the best of everything. 

Big surprise right?  I know! 

Gosh, I'd even count myself among those women.

But see, of these very well meaning mothers, there seems to be a vast majority who really and truly believe the following types of ideas and want to preach their point of view to me using any and all means necessary!

First, there are my favorite old friends, the Nipple Nazis.  Those who feel breastfeeding really IS the only way to feed your kid and that it should be done as long as is humanly possible!  Any sort of compromise a mother makes with herself of her kid about weening earlier than a year (or better yet 2 or 3 years) is just horrible.

Next we have the modern day hippy types.  Those who are adamant that organic produce and meat are best!  Period.  If you really and truly love your child, you would find the money to feed him or her organically.  These are the often the same types who will get on you because anything "disposable" is BAD.  The environment and mother earth deserve better... for our children of course.

Then there is the most most "controversial" topic of vaccinations.  I know the risks.  I do.  Thank you.  I've seen the adverse affects personally and they break my heart.  But um, what am I supposed to tell my kid's doctor?  Or the daycare?  Or, myself, really, when there are live cases of vaccinizable diseases threatening the lives of children in my own area???

So, um, okay.

Right, ladies I get it.  There is a lot of scary stuff out there and we all want to do what's best for our kids.

But ladies, and I doubt seriously if any of you are actually reading this, can't there just be a happy medium with some of these things?

I mean, let me just be honest.  I WAS GUILT TRIPPED INTO BREASTFEEDING MY SON.  Honestly, because, I really didn't want to.  It terrified me.  But I did it.   And you know what, La Leche ladies and everybody else, I'm glad I did.  So there.  You all were right.... sort of.  But after 6 months or so, I was over it.  Heck, Peter was probably over it too because I surely had no problem weening him.  And I needed to be able to regulate his milk intake because he was clearly eating too much.  It was the right thing to do for us.  It was the right thing to do for my sanity and I actually don't care all that much if that makes me sound selfish because a sane mother has just got to be a better option then one who is having some sort of breakdown right??

Will I nurse my second baby?  Probably.  Although I'll be honest and tell you all right now I'm not exactly looking forward to it.  So I guess I'll just see what it is the right thing for US when the time comes. 

Also, can I just state for public record, that when I see someone nurse a child who can walk AND talk AND feed themselves solid foods AND THEN ask their mother to nurse, with words... well, I just gag a little. 

Don't misunderstand, I absolutely respect a women's right to nurse that long but, um, I really just don't want to see it.  Maybe because those seem to be the mother's that feel absolutely no need to use a nursing cover?

Anyway

All of the blogs and articles and whatever else that people post or link to on the Internet to change my mind aren't going to do anything but get on my nerves a little bit.

As far as the all organic food goes... well, gosh, how nice would that be?  Unfortunately, there is just no way.  Not right now anyway.  The fact of the matter is that groceries in California are psychotically expensive.  I can't even imagine what organic groceries would cost.  Plus, honestly... Whole Foods is a nightmare.  I can't stand going there. 

Yes, when possible, Matt and I will go to the farmers' market for our produce, but that's just not always an option.

I guess could just grow my own.   Hmm... let me just put the baby down for a nice long nap and then attempt to plow up the 15 square feet of empty space in my backyard to plant some seeds.  Right.  I'll get on that any day now. 

So, sadly, is organic is just not an option for everyone.  No I don't want to feed my child chemicals or whatever, but HEY you know what... I grew up eating all that crap and I turned out JUST FINE.

Hopefully my kid(s) will too.

As far as the environment goes... well, I wish I could do more.  I really do.  Once again, it usually comes down to time and money.  We recycle and we really do try to conserve water and electricity to save money for ourselves,  just like we drive fuel efficient cars.  Do I feel bad about all the diapers I throw away?  Yea, maybe a little bit, but water is a much more precious commodity on this earth than anything else so I refuse to waste it on washing overpriced cloth diapers, which are also, let's just be honest here, pretty nasty to use and clean. 

Besides, I know that here in America we're supposedly the worst offenders of everything, but go visit a major city in Asia like Tokyo or Hong Kong some time and then try to lecture me on the 2 bags of garbage my family produces each week. 

And then there is the whole debate about vaccines. 

Frankly, I don't even know where to start. 

There's a long back story there, but it really isn't my business to share.

Do I love the idea of vaccines?  No, of course not. 
Am I terrified of a negative reaction to one?  Yes, absolutely.

But do I believe, personally, for my own children that the potential benefits outweigh the risks? 

Yes I do.

There I said it.

Let the onslaught of arguments commence.

As I see it, most diseases which are vaccinated for are potentially fatal in children.  Bu only in the very very worst of adverse reactions to the shots are there fatalities.

I guess I'm playing the odds. 
 
Calling me a bad mommy, accusing me of not caring or calling me ignorant (indirectly of course) will not change my mind.  All it will do is make me like you a little bit less.

I guess what I'm saying here is why does everyone have to be so up in arms about everything?

Where is the happy middle ground?

I respect other people's right to choose what they think is best, I just sort of wish maybe some of those people would stop trying to tell me that what I'm choosing is wrong. 

You know what actually I sort of want to tell all these Mommy's about their opinions? 

I want to tell them to get to know Jesus Christ and develop a nice healthy relationship with Him through prayer.

How's that for preaching?

Because, honestly, I'm a worrier by nature, but, seriously, when you put your trust in Him and realize that He is in control no matter what anyway, a lot of these silly (and not so silly) types of issues stop seeming so important and scary.

Parenting is terrifying.  God gives us these little miracles and we are all here on this earth trying to do what is best for them.  There's too much that can go wrong.  There's too much that we can do wrong.  It's horrible to think about and heartbreaking to even consider the things that can and do happen.

So really, all we can do is ask the Lord for his Help and trust that He will take care of our sweet babies for us, no matter what.

Hormones?

Man oh geez is my sleep schedule really off right now. 

Please take note that it is 11:21 pm as I begin typing this and although I've been laying in bed for nearly 90 minutes I am wide awake.

Bleh.

I just feel very very very very pregnant. 

I mean, duh, obviously, cause I am.  But I don't know if it's that I ate too much, or a drank too much water or what but my tummy feels very very very full.  Like when you chug a buncha soda and really really need to burp.  Ugh.

Pretty much its felt like that for the last week of so. 

(I have this weird image of the baby in there SPRAWLED out like a cat stretches out in a sun beam....)

This is worrying me, of course, because I still have a good 3 months to go.... and I can't imagine how I could feel humongous-er or more pregnant-er. 

Tonight, like most nights, I've been keeping myself entertained by surfing the net.  I think I've read anything posted on facebook from like the last 6 months.  I've clicked back through nearly every post of all my favorite blogs.  Heck, I've even gone back and reread most of my own blog. 

I've also googled lots of random stuff like movie stars and books and song lyrics and quotations and football schedules and the Lord only knows what else.  I've googled maybe 10 million stupid pregnancy questions.  I've googled all of our preferred names for the baby just to see what pops up.  And I've read at least several hundred different women's accounts of their birth stories.

Quite plainly, I CAN'T WAIT for this child to be born.

I feel like I kid on Christmas Eve or something.  Except this baby isn't coming until December and it's still, um, August.  So maybe I'm more like a really little kid who first sees the Holiday decorations that Costco will undoubtably put out in another week or two and believes the big day is just around the corner even though its not even time for Halloween yet.

Speaking of Halloween I really need to figure out what Costume to get for Peter this year....

Anyway, what I mean is, I can, and I will, obviously, wait to meet this baby because I want this child to have a healthy start and all that, but it is just SO difficult for me.

I want to hold this baby in my arms already.

That's gotta be the hormones right?

Peter keeps me busy during the daylight hours, so it isn't as bad.  When an overwhelming dose of lovey-mommy-hormones surges through my veins I just call to my #1 boy and ask him if Mommy can have a hug.  99% of the time he'll come running and I'll scoop him up in my arms and he'll put his head on my shoulder and I'll squeeze him tight and one of his chubby little hands will pat me gently on my back.

It's the best feeling in the world.

And so sweet of him.

If I'm really lucky he might even make a little smack sound with his lips and leave drool all over one of my cheeks in his own very sloppy version of a kiss.

:)

But at night when he's sleeping I can't very well wake him up to ask for a hug. 

The dog isn't exactly obliging either.

And Matt, even if I could get him to wake up, pretty much would prefer not to touch me with a ten foot pole these days.  Ever since he saw the baby moving on ultrasound, and learned who was in there, he looks at me like I'm in one of those Alien(s) movies and at any minute the child in my womb might come tearing out of me to attack him at any moment.

*sigh*

It's going to be a very long 3 months.

How to Have a Happy Second Pregnancy

Step 1.  BEFORE you ever get pregnant the first time send your husband away for a while.  A military deployment worked well for me, but I'm sure a mission or business trip would work just as well so feel free to be creative. While he is gone, console yourself entirely too often with food (cake, chips and dip and Mexican worked well for me) and/or alcohol in order to ensure that you are at least 10 pounds over weight before he ever returns and you ever attempt to get pregnant.

Step 2.  Once you've successfully befome knocked up,  continue working as long as possible, ensuring that you are constantly surrounded by well meaning but generally overly annoying coworkers who will want to discuss your growing belly, your future plans for parenting and your birth plan every. single. time. they see you. 

Step 3.  Give birth to your first child as you see fit, nurse him or her if you can  (it helps if you have an extreme over abundance of milk,) forget about sleeping for a good six months and thank God for skinny DNA, ensuring that you loose the 30 pounds of "baby weight" you gained while pregnant that first time plus that extra ten pounds you were carrying around before you decided to start a family. 

Step 4.  Decide to get pregnant again while your first child is becoming mobile.  The becoming part is key.  As your first born learns to crawl and cruise and eventually even walk you'll be so darn proud of him/her that your desire to have another will be amplified greatly.  However, it is key that you get pregnant the second time if you can BEFORE the child learns to walk.  You must be pregnant the second time before this happens because once this happens you will rapidly become so exhausted from chasing your beloved little tike that you run the risk of talking yourself out of ever having another.

Step 5:  Assuming you are so blessed and can became pregnant "on schedule" and "as desired" you will find that once the nausea of the first trimester clears up (if it ever does) you will have no time to eat anyway.  Should you, miraculously, somehow, find time to actually make yourself food, don't despair as your kid will undoubtably be screaming at your feet for "his share" of whatever it is you're eating in no time, thus limiting your excess caloric intake further and helping to control your prenatel weight gain. 

You will also not have to worry about finding time for some of that much needed exercise as you will likely spend the majority of the day chasing your kid.  Or your dog.  Or both of them.  Or maybe a cat.  And then the dog will need a walk every day.  And you'll have to clean the house occassionally, or in the very least pick up and put away toys sometimes.  Basically, traditonal workouts won't be a luxery you will enjoy but it won't matter anyway as you won't be needing them.

Bonus:  For added "fun" add in a little financial stress to your life, thus ensuring you have something good and important to worry about.  This can be easily accomplished by moving, or deciding to leave your job now that you are a mom and/or attempting to rent your house out in today's volatile housing market.  Without all that pesky extra cash lying around you won't be eating out and you won't be keeping snacks and junk food in the house.  It won't matter anyway, because your tummy will likely be tied up in knots and you won't want to eat much anyway. 

And there you have it!
Simply by following these 5 quick and easy steps you can ensure that your second pregnancy goes much smoother and is indeed much happier than the first in the following ways:

1. You're not working so you don't have all those well-meaning coworkers to listen to every minute of every hour of every day.

and

2.  When you compare your pregnancy weights at the 24 week mark you will find that the second time around, hitting the 6 month mark you are a full 9 pounds lighter than you were at this point last time.  Ignore the fact that you were so much heavier to begin with last time since you were likely in denial about your starting weight back then anyway.  Therefore, no matter how much it hurts "down there" and no matter how humongous (FAT) you might feel during round 2, you can find great solace in knowing you are still better off then the last time. 

Warnings:

Following this plan might cause you to find that NONE of your maternity clothes (in particular the pants) fit the second time around.

Also, depending upon your level of neurosis, your lower weight may cause you to worry that you are starving your second child to death in utero.   However, if your Doc isn't concerned don't despair.  You'd probably just find something else to worry about anyway.

Pregnancy #2 Pics

Tomorrow I will be 25 weeks pregnant.  Let me just assure you all that I feel humongous.  My mother-in-law keeps begging me to put up a photo to show my belly and how big I've gotten, despite the fact that she had five children of her own and I have never seen a pregnant picture of her. 

Anyway, since I do, generally, try to be an agreeable person, let me make her day and oblige her request:

*Special thanks to the Toronto Zoo's Website for strangely having a picture of me on their website. 

My own little bits of heritage

It's no secret to anyone who knows me, or probably anyone that has ever read much of this blog that I have issues with my family.  Particularly, my parents, of course, but it can and does often bleed into other blood relationships as well.  (Like for example, pease don't ask me how my brother is doing because I promise you I have no idea...)

But, I would like to stop for a moment, here and now, and make one thing VERY clear:  I have lots of positive memories from my childhood.   I am "glad" in the long run, that it went the way it did because it made me who I am today, for better, or for worse. 

I can't go back and change it anyway. 

That being said, forgiveness is one thing, re-establishing any relationship is another, and the latter is something that is NEVER going to happen.... if for no other reason than for the sanity and SAFETY of my husband and my child(ren.) 

Anyway, I'd like to take a moment this evening and discuss some of the things I love that my mother did.  Some parts of her, that I think had a huge affect on me, FOR THE BETTER.  Because I think a lot of the time, people hear me mention stuff about her and they think, it must ALL be sad, or whatever and that things were all so, horribly broken.  But they weren't.  Amongst the chaos and the crap, the sun did break through the clouds and a lot of good stuff happened sometimes. 

My mother, for one thing, was hugely, gifted artistically.  It could be a bit annoying actually, because it was hard to live up to her ego and her high expectations sometimes, but that isn't my point here.  She was amazing.  If she could have ever just realized that, and maybe stopped trying to hard to convince everyone else and I don't know, prove something to.... somebody... well, things might have turned out very differently

What I'm saying here though, is that I hope I inherited some of her artistic talent.

I remember hearing her sing next to me in church on Sundays when I was little and I marvelled at her voice.
She always swore it had been ruined when her tonsils were taken out, but you couldn't have convinced me.  I wanted to sing just  like her.

She also played the clarinet long before I ever did and could pick the thing up after years of neglect and always produce a perfect tone and sight read her way through the piece I was trying so desperately to master with out so much as missing an accidental.  Oh how I wanted to be able to play like that.

I never saw her dance, but because she'd danced as a child I got to as well.  I wanted so badly to make her proud when she saw my performances.

She did synchronized swimming in high school I think, and I always remember thinking how graceful she was in the water.  I wanted to be graceful like that too.

She could draw.  Man could she draw (I most remember her beautiful sketches of horses.)  This was another one of those love/hate things when I was a kid because she had a bad habit of tearing down our own art for school projects and then attempting to do it herself-- like I said, she was always trying to prove something... but when she didn't do that, when she just, like, sketched, it was amazing.  I wanted to be able to draw like that someday.

My mom was an artist, that is for sure.  Certainly not a professional one, but sometimes she'd randomly come home from wasting a pile of money at the craft store only to sit down, set to work and few hours have a pile of masterfully hand painted wooden refrigerator magnets.  It was mind boggling.  It was awesome.

She loved Holidays and at least when I was younger, really got into decorating the house.  One year she set out to make Halloween decorations.  She started with bags of orange fabric, and variety of colored felt, pom pom balls and pipe cleaners.  A few days later there was a large stuffed jack-o-lantern pumpkin smiling at us from the center of the kitchen table along with two smartly dresses spiders, a variety of ghosts and undoubtedly several other creatures that I've since long forgotten. 

She made our Christmas stocking from needlepoint kits, along with a few dozen of the most beautiful hand beaded ornaments that hung on our tree. 

She made our costumes for school plays and Halloween. 

I always wanted to make holidays special just the way she did.

When I got to high school she and I made my Junior and Senior Prom dresses, just like she had done with her own mother years before.  I remember sitting there next to her, watching as she laid the pattern out, hoping that someday I'd get to share a moment like that with my own daughter.

Through it all, most of the time, she'd let me watch and help.  She'd explain to me what she was doing, so I understood and one day could do the same for my children maybe.

She taught me to needlepoint, and to craft, and to sew.  She taught me that you can make things for your children and they'll love them all the more for the love and time you put into them, just the way I loved the things she made for me.

Oh. 

Let me not forget....

My mother could cook. 

I mean, she wasn't going on Food Network any time soon, or going to publish a cookbook, but something about the things she made us, just.... wow.  I have never tasted a Thanksgiving turkey better than the ones she made.  Surely, the recipes weren't complex, nothing was gourmet or all that high class (although a lot of the time she tried to convince herself otherwise) but what we ate when she cooked, was just delicious. 

At Halloween there were always these pumpkin cookies-- I can't even describe them. 

At Thanksgiving there were the pies.  Mincemeat, and pumpkin, and apple, and sometimes Lemon Meringue.  (Of course at Thanksgiving there also tended to be very unfortunate choices like Peas with Pearl Onions (GAG!) and this very unfortunate Green Jello "salad" concoction, that if I'm totally honest, I really have blocked out of my memory aside from the fact that it didn't deserve to be classified as edible in my very firm opinion.)

But  then came Christmas.  OH. THE. COOKIES. 

OH. MY. HEAVENS. 

Brownies, and chocolate chip and Peanut Butter Fingers and Cherry Cheesecake bars and iced sugar cookies and chocolate drop cookies and French Powdered Sugar Crescent Thing-a-ma-bobs, and, and, and...

and, well I don't remember what else, but, YUM. 

Throw in some Strawberry bread and some Maple Nut bread and I could have very well ended up a very, humongous, very fat child.

:)
It's no secret around this blog that I generally detest cooking.  (And Matt is so very much better at it than me.)  But come the Holidays... I've just gotta bake.

Just like my Mama.

(Generally speaking, I just try to leave out her favorite ingredient: guilt.  Hahah.  Trust me, that's funny if you know my mother.)

So you see, its no surprise (to me anyway) why there are certain things, like these I've mentioned above, that it is very, very important to me that I do well for my own child(ren.)

I can't give my kids their maternal grandmother back, but I can give her what she taught me.  I can sing proudly with them at church.  I can teach them to love music like I do.  I can give them the opportunity to dance or swim or whatever it is they choose to do.  I can make a million holiday decorations to commemorate every silly holiday there is.  I can (and have) hand bead(ed) a few dozen beautiful Christmas ornaments, and needlepoint their stockings for them.  I can bake way too many Thanksgiving pies and Christmas cookies and frost them over-the-top birthday cakes.  I can teach them how to make a million silly crafts if they want.  I can teach them to sew and even make their Halloween costumes and formal dresses if they want.

What I can't do, really, is help myself.

It's very important to me.

(Matt thinks I'm crazy about it in fact, but that's okay.)

These are the things I have from my own childhood to pass on.  I owe it to my mother.

Diaper Box Derby

The other day I was cleaning out the dreaded closet under the stairs.  Peter helped. 

And by "helped" I mean he played with every single item he could get his hands on, including Daddy's bike helmet and all the empty boxes.

I guess he's hungry.....

...and he really wants me to know it.

Belly Buttons

Let me just begin this post by stating for public record, that I find the human belly button to be one of the strangest things on this very planet.  I remember once quite clearly as a child asking my mother why it is that some people have inny buttons while others get stuck with outties.  She had no idea, but theorized that maybe it had something to do with the way the doctor "ties the thing off at birth."  Hmm. 

Recently I asked my pediatrician this very same question in regards to my own son's navel.  (His is an inny that has an odd little tendency to make brief appearances popping out for no reason when Peter moves a certain way.)   The Doc informed me that there is no good reason why some buttons heal one way, while others go the opposite, but she also assured me that sometimes there are odd ones that can't seem to make up their minds.  Apparently, my first born has one of those.

And to be sure, I've already mentioned several times in this blog, and really, to anyone who might care to listen, about how disturbing I find the change in my own belly button when I'm pregnant.  Don't get me wrong, I'd been warned about it popping out, and I knew to expect this, but, well, I really had no idea. 

When I was pregnant with Peter my button started out as a nice narrow, deep indent.  As my tummy grew larger, the indent stretched wider and wider and the "hole" became shallower and shallower, until, basically my navel was flat.  It never *really* stuck out and boy was I happy about that.  I never had to try any of the silly cover up tricks I've heard about (like taping a quarter over it to hold it in) in order to maintain a "smooth" baby bump.  (And if you're wondering, no, I'm not making that up, some one told me to try that claiming it worked great for her.)

Post pregnancy number one, my button mostly returned to normal. 

This time around though, it's behaving very differently.  I've still got over 3 months left of this pregnancy and the thing has decided popped out already.  I'm actually a bit worried about how much further it might go...

A thought which disturbs me to NO END.

I can't seem to stop looking at it.  And messing with it (trying to push it back in, etc.)

The fact of the matter is, I never really wanted to know what the very bottom of my belly button looked like. 

Does anyone?

So this evening we were giving Peter his bath.  Daddy and the boy were tossing rubber duckies back and forth across the tub and I found myself rolling up my already too short maternity shirt and pondering my navel some more.  I noticed there seemed to be some bits of dried skin and was sort of picking them when Matt looked at me with a "WILL YOU PLEASE STOP THAT!!" sort of expression on his face.

I continued to poke and prod for a minute than looked up and asked him what was on my mind, "SERIOUSLY," I said, "Have you ever wondered what's at the bottom of your belly button?  This isn't natural!  I shouldn't be able to see this!"  

Oh that man I married.  He looked at me, shrugged and then said, "I don't have to wonder, I know what's at the bottom of mine.  There's a little machine that produces very small bits of cotton each day."

Haha.

Hahahahahaha.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

And he's not kidding.  His belly button has an uncanny ability to collect (or produce?) lint.

Then again, this maybe the sort of thing that is only funny WITHIN a marriage.  Maybe.  But that comment just made me laugh so hard, I literally had to share. 

Also, on the plus side, I realize now an inside out belly button gathers no lint.  :)

At the Park with Daddy

The dreaded fog is back this morning but, like every day, we have high hopes around here that is will burn off in the afternoon for at least a few moments so we can enjoy some warmth outside.  On that note, here are some picture of Peter at the park with Matt the other day during one of these brief sunny breaks.

"Let's play ball!"

Taking Daddy for a drive:

"I can slide all by myself...."

"...just so long as somebody is waiting to catch me at the bottom."  :)

Motorcycle ride:

(Daddy is providing the sound affects and everything.)

"Wait a sec, I'm tired of the baby park-- look what's over here!!!!"

Peter driving again while Daddy sounds the imaginary "Toot TOOOT!!!"

Oh and obviously I was there too, with the dog actually (who was firmly secured to a bench,) but in my "enlarged" state I couldn't really keep up with those two other than with the zoom on my camera lens. 

A Little Bit of Summer

Every now and then the Monterey fog blows away and we get a few hours to enjoy summertime around here.

Afterward, I caught this little gem:

Random Hubby Sweetness

Today my Bible Study group started back up for its regular sessions after the summer break.  What this meant was even though I actually styled my hair and found a cute (maternity) outfit to wear I had approximately 35 ladies tell me this morning about just how pregnant I've gotten.

Awesome.

(It really is actually.  This second baby is a huge blessing.)

At least nobody gasped and said "MY GOODNESS you've gotten so big!!" like a certain fourth grade teacher did to me at about this point last year... in front of a room full of students.

So anyway, even though it is "awesome" to be pregnant, well, let's just be honest, it's not all awesome.

It hurts a lot of the time and, the whole getting fat partl is, well, a raw deal if you ask me.

And while I'm one of those weird ladies who apparently only gets pregnant in my tummy (or at least that's what I've been told and mind you there's still lots of time left this round for my butt to get, like, ginormous,) but last time, and so far this time I seem to really just stay the same size everywhere else while my midsection goes INSANE.

It's actually sort of a nice way to be pregnant, if you ask me, because, at least after Peter was born, I didn't have to worry about loosing a great deal of extra pregnancy weight from odd places... like my butt or, I don't know, the back of my arms.

But still, these days I'm beginning to feel like a Hippopotamus. 

They have big mouths right?  See, so the comparison works. 

So then to further my fat-complex, this afternoon we step out our front door to walk the dog and across the street there is this evil girl.  She had to be something like 16-20 years old, and she had long perfect straight hair (the kind I used to pay lots of money to get my own hair to resemble)  and on top of her perfect hair she had this perfect little body.  Not that I was trying to notice this, but it was awfully hard to miss owing to the fact that all she had on was a tiny little runner's sports bra, a ridiculous little pair of running shorts and some running shoes. 

And her evil little perfectly flat stomach, full of perfectly defined little abdominal muscles, was sooooo mocking me from all the way across the street.

I couldn't help myself.  I quietly started cursing her to Matt as we started our walk.  I hoped that she would find herself unexpectedly pregnant with like, quadruplets some day, and that in the process would end up with about 40 million stretch marks all over her perfect stomach so that even if she ever managed to find those abdominal muscles again her neighbors wouldn't have to see them while she goes running because there would be no way she'd be bearing her midriff ever again....

Matt reminded me that after Peter my stomach had flattened out again quite nicely, and with only the teeny-tiniest little one stretch mark, but that if I didn't remember to behave myself and be nice I might not be as lucky this next time.

We walked on, I continued to mutter unhappily under my breath.

And the skinny perfect evil girl jogged on ahead of us, up the street.

Then Matt said the most perfect thing ever:

He said, "Don't worry about her, she isn't going to stay skinny."

And I was all, "What?  Why?  How do you know?"

And then he was all, "Well, I don't remember who told me this, but back in college somebody in ROTC warned me that you can always tell whether a skinny girl is going to stay a skinny girl based on her ankles."

"Why's that?"  I asked, noticing that the evil mostly naked running girl did actually sort of suffer from an unfortunate case of cankles, despite her otherwise trim physic.

"Because, you can't build a brick house on stilts." Matt explained.  "So don't worry Jen, you've always had skinny ankles.  Even now.  Unlike that girl."


And that, dear friends, is why I love my husband.

Pampering

So just now I was thinking to myself while I was on "vacation."   "Vacation" has recently become the preferred terminology used around here to refer to any time Mama needs a few minutes to herself in the bathroom.  Usually this involves a long, hot encounter with my new lover, Mr. Bubble, but, um, not always. 

So anyways, I was laying there in the tub staring at the absurd condition of my belly button and thanking God that somebody invented Mr. Clean Magic Erasers- because they do such an AMAZING job cleaning hard/annoying to clean things, like my bath tub, so that I can enjoy some bubbly quiet time at the end of a long day.

Time out:     regarding those Magic Erasers...  if you haven't tried them, well, DO!  They are amazing.  My friend discovered them when we lived in Japan.  Our housing there had awful, plain white, industrial style tile down on ALL the floors.  Ick.  Seriously, it was like the stuff you see in Elementary School Hallways, or church social halls because it is allegedly so easy to keep clean.  Imagine that gleaming whiteness spreading from wall to wall of your own house.  (Oh dread.)  Then imagine that this house happens to be in Japan where the climate is such that is rains, on average, something like 4 million days a year.  What do you think that did to the tile?  (Double dread.)  So anyway, my friend Julie, who also happened to have a couple of little kids at the time had been using a magic eraser to scrub down her kitchen one afternoon that I happened to be over (stainless steal counter tops, and just-off-white Formica cabinets, triple dread) when she decided to have a go at her floors to.  And ohmygoodness!!!  Mr. Clean and his wonder scrubber had that floor WHITE in no time.  Sersiouly.  I think it even worked its way through the approximately 5 inches of dirt-accumulating wax that had been applied to that floor before she ever moved in.

Amazing.

Needless to say I started investing right away.

So then we moved about 5 more times.  Alright not that many, but it feels like it.  So now we're here.  Thankfully there is no elementary school tile anywhere to be seen (except maybe the local elementary school, I don't know, I haven't been there.) 

But the bathroom tubs.  UGH.  They're like these ready made, plastic, drop in models.  Sort of like giant Rubbermaid containers in tub form.  The entire surface of them is, like, ever so faintly bumpy, presumably to prevent slipping I guess, but it is actually a bit ironic because my anti-slipping tub mats won't stick the stuff.

And the dirt.  Oh and the soap scum.  Oh and the grime.  They lovely every single little tiny minute crevice on those tubs' surfaces. 

Don't get me wrong.  I am a total failure as a homemaker.  I don't cook and I rarely clean.  Just about the only thing I have going for me is I'm organized and I'm tidy.  Everything in my home has its own place and *most* evening, when I go to bed, everything has been returned to its place, regardless of what kind of disaster area Hurricane Peter created earlier that day. 

My bathroom is usually a bit of a swamp.  But, I do require a fairly clean tub to relax in.  Even if I have to close my shower curtain to hide the state of the entire rest of my bathroom from my own eyes while I relax in a bath.

So like I said, I thank the Lord on high for Mr. Clean and his Magic erasers because otherwise, I don't think I could stomach soaking in that tub and boy do I ever need that little vacation some evenings.

Just me and Mr. Bubble.

He's so sexy to me.  And so confident in his hot pink little bottle...

Why is it that all my favorite products around the house are named after men all of a sudden?

Anyway, so like I said I was soaking and I got to thinking: about my life and what makes me happy.  Generally speaking, you know, I am very blessed.  But this past year, with me staying home, and taking the loss in the rental of our house, some stuff has had to get cut out.  That's to be expected.  But, man do I ever miss a few of those little splurges.

In an ideal world I don't think I require much to make me feel truly, um, pampered.  I mean, is it so much to ask to be able to get my hair cut and highlighted 3 or 4 times a year?  And while I'm there, maybe can I take the extra ten minutes and have them wax my eyebrows.  Then send me off for a quick manicure and a pedicure, nothing fancy now, just the basic issue kinds, and I am feeling pretty darn special.  I mean, its only every few months!! 

Heck, give me a hundred bucks twice a year or so for some new clothes or shoes around the seasons' change and I am golden. 

Is that really so much to ask?

Apparently so, these days.

Peter is so worth the sacrifice, mind you. 

As long as I have my Magic Erasered tub and Mr. Bubble anyway...



(Just please don't say anything to me about my roots.)

Regarding Duty Stations

Being married to the military, I am constantly meeting other military spouses and naturally one of the favorite topics of early conversation is the whole "where have you been/where are you going next?" line of questioning.  It amazes me how this ALWAYS comes up, and that, often times, you can find out that you have a great deal in common with someone (or not) based on how often they've moved and where they've been or where they're going next.

These conversations are particularly interesting here at our current duty station because, well, it's not a normal duty station.  Matt isn't attached to a Navy base, he's attached to a Navy School.  Furthermore, even though the school is run by the Navy, members of all the services can and do attend.  Additionally, there is an Army run language institute here in town which welcomes members of all the services as well. What this means is for the first time, in large part, since I've been around the military, I am friends with families from all the services: Army, Navy, Marine Corps and Air Force a like. 

And you know what the one thing I've really discovered is....  Army bases are in some really dismal places. 

Hahah. 

No, just kidding.

But you can always tell an Army family when they get here because they tend to rave about the scenery and the cool weather.  This of course is what happens when you've spent the vast majority of your life sweating out your summers in the southern heat and in the middle of nowhere... because that tends to be where the army has its bases.

Boy am I ever so glad Matt's in the Navy.  At least, we stand a fairly decent chance of always living near the coast.  (Although there are exceptions.  I just choose not to think about those possibilities.)

So ANYWAY.

One of the other things that never fails to amaze me is that I continue to meet military wives who are just itching to get stationed overseas.

Um, I'm sorry, what?  WHY???

Now granted.... if they haven't done it, well, they don't necessarily know what they're in for.  And if their husband might actually be around during the time that they live overseas, well, that might be kind of a fun adventure.  And, if I hadn't had to go, at a time when my head and heart were DEAD set against it.... to the one duty station I was dead set against... well, I might have a different opinion about the matter.

Am I glad that I lived in Japan for two years?  Yes.  It was an adventure, and I got to see some cool things and go to some cool places and learn about the world and most of all we got it out of the way early in our lives when we didn't have a great deal of stuff (or children0 to deal with in the process. 

But, would I do it again?  Um.... probably not.  Not if I had a say in the matter anyway, which, of course, we all know, I DON'T.

So what's the draw, I wonder.  It isn't like I ever had my heart set on living in one place my entire life... because the Lord knows come hell or high water I was getting out of Ohio, which is ironic to look back at now since it was, actually, such a nice place to grow up and I think seriously all the time about going back there if we can.  But I never wanted to live abroad.  I like America.  There's plenty of options here for me.  Heck, I never even really felt a strong desire to travel abroad.  If you ask me, travelling, in generally, sort of sucks.  I mean, unless your fabulously wealthy and can afford to go all first-class, airplanes suck.  And hotels, sort of suck too  And tourists, well, they really suck.  And foreign food...  yeah, well, it really really really sucks. 

Don't believe me?  Wander off the beaten path by about 2-3 blocks the next time you're in Hong Kong for me.  Trust me, the things your find for sale to eat might fascinate you, but I highly doubt they will set your mouth a-watering. 

And don't. even. get. me. started. on. the. plumbing. 

Western toilets are a thing to be adored.  That is all I'm saying. 

Okay, no its not...

Do you have strong leg muscles and a good sense of balance?  I sure hope so.... :)

Anyway.

So I got to thinking just now.  Maybe the reason I am so anti-travel and anti-living abroad is because I don't really have roots anywhere.  I mean, sure I grew up in Ohio (except for that one year I was in Florida) but it isn't like I have any family (on my side) who I can go back and visit there.  And say what you will, because I love my husband's family... but my husband's roots, they aren't mine. 

And we own a house in San Diego and have lived there for almost 5 years total, just, not all at once.  So going to San Diego can definitely fell like a homecoming for me, except, well, its not and I don't actually live there now. 

I do have a "home" of course-- where ever we are stationed, but our home tends to change places every few years.  If, as they say, "Home (really is) where the Navy sends you," well, that's all well and good.  But you never really put down roots is all. 

I'm rootless.

Which is funny/ironic sort of since on my Dad's side I'm Hungarian and Hungary is traditionally considered to be a country settled by gypsies. 

I dig in as deep as I can, where ever I go, making friends and creating a life for myself (ourselves) but any roots I try to put down are shallow and weak and will, more than likely, be broken up they next time we pack up and move.

It's an odd sort of feeling.

So what I'm wondering is if this is why I feel so ill about living abroad.  I mean, its one thing to go overseas for a few years and set up a home in an apartment or whatever when you know that back where you came from your parents or your extended family are still there and life continues as normal. 

But my own version of normal isn't waiting for me back anywhere.

And in my experience, one thing is for sure, when you live overseas your life will not feel normal most of the time.  It won't be bad, mind you, just, a bit abnormal.

Anyway, that's just what I was thinking about. 

Boy do I hope we never have to go overseas again.

And I hope that all the ladies I meet who are so eager and excited to follow their men far away will find just the thrills they're looking for.

Terrifying

I mentioned the other day that I have very vivid dreams.  And I do.  Shockingly so, if you ask me.

And I tend to remember them a lot. 

Er, well, I did... when an alarm clock woke me up every morning for work or school or whatever thereby interrupting those dreams.  These days it doesn't happen as often, I guess because I get to sleep in a *little* later than I did when I was in school and/or working and I am much more likely to awake myself, naturally.

Seriously though, in the past, I've had some whoppers.

I remember when I was first living in Texas.  Matt had been deployed almost immediately after I'd gotten there, so in many senses of the word I was "alone" and I think it screwed with my mental well being.  That and the fact that some horrid human being decided to blow up the USS Cole about 6 weeks into his first ever deployment.  Never mind the fact that when it happened Matt's ship was somewhere off the coast of one of the Carolinas.  I was freaked out.  And one night, I had a dream that I was walking across campus back at Ohio State (I was fresh out of college at the time) and I looked up over my shoulder and saw several planes coming.  Then I saw them start dropping bombs on us. 

I jerked awake as things started blowing up around me.

Obviously the fact that I remember this dream ten years later tells you how much it freaked me out.

Another time, maybe a year or two later I had a dream that I was back in high school talking to this one girl I sort of knew.  "Sort of" being the key there.  The girl in question had gone to school with me since probably the 3rd or 4th grade and other than the fact that we both took gymnastics at the same gym we had nothing in common, certainly not a friendship.  So in this dream, I found myself randomly talking to her when for some reason (I have no idea why) she pulled a gun out and pointed it straight at my face. 

That time I jerked awake as she started to pull the trigger.

If you're one of those people who tries to analyze dreams... I "love" to hear your opinion on that one.   Why my subconscious decided this random chick I went to school with had it out for me I'll never know.

I'm sure there have been other doozies over the years, but these two stick out the most clearly in my memory as the most upsetting. 

Until now.... but I'll get to that in a minute.

So, you know, I also happen to be pregnant right now.  Lots of people will tell you about how the prenatal hormones can screw with your dreams.  I know with Peter there were definitely a few times where he was lost and I couldn't find him even though he was crying and crying and then of course I'd wake up before I would ever get to him, probably because my prenatal mind didn't have an image on file for my impending baby and the conscious side of my brain was doing a real number with itself during my waking hours trying to convince itself that everything was going to be okay.

But, this time around, at, let me see, 22 weeks and counting I haven't had any of the crazed preggo dreams.  Or, not that I can remember.

Until last night, when I had a real whopper,probably the most terrifying one ever and its funny because it wasn't even concerning the new baby. 

In the dream Matt was back working on a ship, because, well, go figure, for 9 of the last 10 years he's been on ships.  Clearly my brain has not accepted the fact that the sea-going part of his career is *supposed* to be, largely, done.  So one day he tells me that he'd been assigned another collateral duty, which meant that now in addition to everything else he was responsible for keeping alleged criminals on the ship supervised while they were being investigated.  You know, those guys that pop positive on the drug tests, or get DUIs or get arrested or whatever.  It seems like, in Matt's experience anyway, the vast majority of these guys end up confined to the ship for awhile before eventually getting, um, "asked to leave" the Navy, according to my dream, these dirt bags were now going to be Matt's problem.

Anyway, so the next day Matt goes to work and of course there is some big dude who's waiting for him in his office after getting himself in trouble.  And so naturally Matt walks in to talk to the guy and find out what's going on.  (Why I am at work with Matt and able to watch all this go down, is, well, beyond me.)  So then, for whatever reason, the guy turns around with a big long knife and stabs Matt in the gut. 

Dream Jen *FREAKS* out.

(Obviously)

But I don't wake up.  I start panicking and screaming for help and trying to figure out how to apply pressure to the wound as Matt lays there bleeding or whatever...

and then the next thing I know...

Matt was gone and the person lying there in front of me, silently gasping for breath and slowly bleeding to death from a stab wound to his tummy... not crying at all... barely even moving... except to look up at me terrified little blue-grey eyes....

...was my baby boy, Peter. 



Obviously I woke right up.

It was morning.  I was in my bed.  Peter was making little sounds at me through the monitor. 

I flew to my child, who was of course fine and just waking up himself and if anything was just a bit confused as to why his Mama was clinging to him so tightly first thing in the morning and crying.

I know it was just a dream. 

I KNOW it.

But it was so scary.

And I can't get those images out of my mind.

Mental Overload

My brain hurts, and it isn't because I have a headache.  It's because it is over full of useless thoughts and worries. 

Money.  Babies.  Stuff we need.  Stuff I need to do.  Stuff Matt needs to do.  Etc, etc, etc. 

These thoughts are just useless, of course, because its all (mostly) out of my hands.  Yet they're keeping me up at night... er, more so than being pregnant and dealing with Peter did already. 

Speaking of Peter...

He has been sleeping soundly through the night for months now, sickness and obnoxious random middle of the night exploding poop and the like, not withstanding.  Sure, on rare occasions he wakes up SCREAMING and if, in  a moment, he doesn't settle down I will run to him and pick him up and hold him and kiss his forehead and rock him and promise that everything will be okay.  Then he will go right back to sleep.  Matt thinks he just wakes up really really needing his Mama.  I think he sometimes has bad dreams (he is related to me after all.... and by that I mean that I am a really vivid dreamer and not that he'd be having nightmares about his family.  Well, not yet anyway.  Haha.)

I don't mind when that happens.  It lovely to feel needed, even at odd hours in the middle of the night.  Even when I am sleeping.  I cherish those moments because he still wants to be rocked and cuddled by me and sadly that already doesn't happen as much as I'd like.

In other news, in the last 2 weeks we cut out the bedtime bottle.  Well, first it became a bedtime sippy cup (of milk) and then after a couple of nights when we ate dinner late, we just cut that too.  Somebody I know had developed a nasty habit of not finishing his milk and was instead pouring it all over the carpet, so we stopped giving him his milk in bottles and switched to cups.  So, no more bottles.  :(  For reals.  Matt sanitized them all the other day and I packed them away in a box until A.J.  comes.  :(   I don't know why that makes me sad, but it does.  Anyway, my point with all that, is that sometimes (like last night) Peter wakes up starving in the middle of the night again. 

Last night was one of those nights.

I tried not to feed him. 

After about 2 hours, I lost the battle.

Which explains why I am so tired this morning. 

Well that and the fact that my husband will sleep peacefully and soundlessly next to me for HOURs each night while I read or surf the net or whatever, but inevitably 25 seconds after I turn out the light and close my eyes he turns into the loudest and most obnoxious lumberjack.

Anyway, so my baby isn't a baby any more because he doesn't drink out of bottles.  And sure in four more months I'll have another baby, to, um, "baby," but it's making me a little sad.

And actually the part about having another baby is freaking me out.

Super excited mind you, but also scared out of my mind.



Also, somewhat unrelated, but I'm becoming more and more convinced that I should go back to work.  The school district here was even looking for music teachers.  But what district in their right mind is going to hire a pregnant woman who's husband is transferring in the spring?  Still the money would really be nice.  And the sanity. 

Aw money...

Ooooh sanity.



Please don't get me wrong.  I LOVE my son.  He's awesome and amazing.  I can't *really* even imagine leaving him all day.  But he can tend to drive me crazy.  Take yesterday for example:

In the a.m. he was PERFECT.  He drank his milk and ate his oatmeal.  Then he played with his toys all by himself.  Sure, he brought me things from time to time, and he made a huge mess, but for about 2 hours he entertained himself.  And I sat there, like, wondering what to do with myself.  When it was time for Sesame Street he sat down and watched it without me.  (Well, not completely without me, somebody had to turn it on.)  So I got out A.J.'s quilt to work on.  I felt guilty sitting around doing nothing but staring at my kid.  I worked on the quilt through Sesame Street and through Peter's morning nap and then I woke him up and fed him lunch.  Sure, he fed a lot of it to the dog, but that's to be expected.  After lunch he went back to playing so I went back to the quilt. 

And then Peter became possessed by something evil.  He was throwing things at me and the dog.  He was hitting me and the dog.  He was climbing on furniture.  He was pulling on electrical cords I didn't even know he could reach.  He was screaming bloody murder for no reason at all.

I know what you're all thinking.  It's so obvious, he was trying to get my attention.  So I put my quilt up and tried to play with him but of course by then he was too wound up and into the "wrong" kind of attention.  I don't really appreciate it when he beats me up.  Stop laughing, that kid is STRONG and he hits hard.  Ordinarily in that type of situation we'd go outside (but it was drizzly and gray) or go shopping as an excuse to get it out of the house (but we have NO money right now) so I was stuck inside with him and nothing to do.

I tried a DVD.  He sat in an empty diaper box for about 5 minutes and watched happily.  Then he climbed out of the diaper box and threw it at me.  Then he spent a good long while trying to chase the dog and cats with that diaper box, presumably to get them inside of it.

Why the dog wouldn't just GO OUTSIDE or in the very least stay upstairs is really just beyond me.

Afternoon nap time came just in time. 

And the boy got to live.

I'm kidding.

(Mostly)

But the thing is, getting back to the working Mother thing, is a lot of my girlfriends do work.  And I always intended to be a working Mom myself.  Not that I love the idea of day care or whatever, I just know myself and my strengths and patience isn't really one of them. 

So a lately, a lot of the time after a long day of Peter wearing me out, I'll complain to my girlfriends.  You know, the ones who spend about 2 hours in the morning with their kid and maybe 3 or 4 at night.  (How sad for them actually.)  And I tell them about how Peter gets into everything and has an opinion about everything and how he drove me crazy all day.

I swear they just look at me and tell me how great that is.  They tell me to stop whining and be happy he is thriving so completely and developing and all that.  And I'm like, "Well, obviously, great, yeah, right... but seriously.... have you seen the bald spots where I ripped my own hair out earlier?"

Because when you're at work all day you miss a lot of these types of moments.

When you're at work and you kid throws a bowl of oatmeal or sticks his finger in an electrical socket or tries to ride on the dog like a pony it's somebody else's problem.  When he straight up slaps somebody across the face just for fun, it probably isn't you.

You may or may not even hear about it when you pick the kid up at the end of the day.

*sigh*

It's sort of like the random urge I get to turn my cell phone off and go away for maybe 8 or 12 hours one weekend, although I have no idea what on Earth I'd do, just so Matt can experience what I go through every day. 

Working Mom's miss a lot of the real "joys" of parenthood.

Anyway, I have no idea how to wrap all this up.  So I won't.

Baby A.J. Pictures

As usual, these are a couple weeks late, but working under the mantra of "better late than never" here are some ultrasound images of our little #2. 

First, a head shot, mugging for the camera and even giving a little wave.

On our print out of this picture Doc wrote "I'm so cute."

He's hilarious actually.  He was SO excited during the whole thing.  He kept saying "Lookit that, lookit that..." and then pointing out whatever part of Baby's anatomy he could see or telling us whatever Baby just did.  It's good to have a doctor who still gets so excited about things even though he's been delivering babies for over 20 years.  I just love him, and that is certainly something I NEVER thought I'd be saying about my OB/Gyn.

This next one shows from the abdomen down and is kind of cool because the legs are stretched out.  Doc was using it to take all sorts of measurements, (since its a little rare to catch the legs outstretched like that) and as usual, the measurements were coming back a little big for the gestational age. 

And NO, before you ask, this is not a picture where you can tell the baby's gender.  We have some of those too, but I'm not about to post a picture of my future 2nd born's private places on the internet.  Sorry.   I know that many of you already know... but for those of you whom we haven't told, well, let's just keep it a surprise once again.  :)

Little Aloysius Johnboy or Alloutte Juniper* would much rather keep it, in large part, a surprise anyway.

*Before you all freak out, NO, neither of those will be what A.J. stands for.  Well, probably not.  The fact of the matter is, we haven't decided yet, other than the fact that it will be an "A" name, followed by a "J" name. 

Also, in a piece of over shared information, about that large black blob immediately below the baby in that last picture.  Yeah, that was my very full bladder.  Doc took great joy in pointing that out for me and giving me his medical opinion that I did, indeed, need to go pee very badly.  Gee, thank you Doc for the confirmation. 

Finally, this last one is cool.  Well, at least I think it is.  My midwife in San Diego never printed the heart rate monitor images, and actually I've never seen one of these either (although now that I've said that I'm sure people will be climbing out of the woodwork to tell me all about how their Doc printed these images for them as well,)  but it's neat to see.

Here we have A.J.'s head and spine (now facing down because midway through things there was a great deal of action in there, at the end of which, the baby was flipped over facing my spine, next to the heart rate measurement. 

 The little tike's ticker seems to be going fast and steady just as it should be.  That's good for me to see and know since there is a pattern of heart disease on BOTH sides of my family.  

Anyway, dear little one, I hope you are continuing to do well growing and developing in there.  And don't get me wrong, I might complain about the step aerobics but really they do make me happy since they tell me you are doing well.  Just try to take it easy because we've still got a long way to go until December when I'll hold you in my arms.  In the mean time, I promise to try to keep your big brother from jumping on you too often.  XOXO Mama

Mean Thought for the Day...

Let me just preface all this by reminding everyone in the entire universe that I am not in any way, shape or form a morning person.  Mornings make me grumpy.  Even when I wake up to the cute little sounds of my baby babbling to himself happily in his crib AND it's after 8:00 am.  Alright in this case it was roughly 8:03 am, but technically that is PAST 8, so I am happy, but still grumpy. 

Give me until 9:30 or so.  Or better yet 10:00.

Unless of course come 10:00 the greyness hasn't even thought about blowing away and the temperature outside on this the 3rd morning of August isn't even thinkiing about clearing 50...  in which case I might stay grouchy a little bit longer.

So anyway...

Let me remind you that there are children everywhere in this neighborhood.  And, generally speaking, I enjoy children.  They are usually sweet and kind and they do silly entertaining things.

Except sometimes you meet one who just drives you batty.

One of those moved in a few doors down a couple months back.

She's one of the kids who came to my house selling WATER a few days ago.  (Eyes Roll.) 

For the record, the very next day, she and her friend were outside and at it again, except this time they had actual lemonade.  And they wanted everyone, within about a 10 mile radius to know about it.  How nice for me who lives across the street and sort of wanted to relax for a QUIET hour that afternoon while Peter took his nap. 

And then yesterday Peter and I were out in the front yard.  He was happily running around chasing after his blue playground ball.  Mostly he was going back and forth on the side walk because running in the grass has a nasty habit of making him fall down.  That girl came along on her bicycle and nearly ran him over.  She did yell "Watch out!" and she was moving pretty slow, but, um seriously girl, he's a baby-- you need to watch out for him.  Luckily I was there to move him out of her way and she disappeared around the corner.

A few minutes later my neighbor and her chocolate lab came outside.  Naturally Peter made a B-line for the dog.  And then of course Annoying Girl and her friend appeared to pet the dog too.  Which was all well and good... until they lost interest in the dog and literally TOOK my baby's ball from him, without asking, and started playing with it.  Peter didn't care, of course, because this meant he had the puppy all to himself.  But I could have screamed at them.  (Don't worry, I didn't.) 

Eventually they went away again.  I was happy.

So this morning, it's like 8:15 (well, it's not now, but it was) and I am grouchy.  I can see out my window a few yards over that Annoying Girl is outside on her trampoline (which her parents have set up OUTSIDE their own back yard, on what is, essentially, common neighborhood ground) jumping with several other children and having high time of it  A very LOUD, screeching and giggling, high time.  Call me crazy, but 8:15 seems a little early for all that, but that's beside my point. 

My point is (and here is the mean part) that as I stood there in my jammies watching them, I just couldn't help but wonder if that Annoying Child has any friends based on her own merit, or if it's just because she has a trampoline. 

Here's the part where I remind myself to be nice because if I'm not careful Peter's going to end up marrying a girl like that.  Lord, please help me....

13 Months

It's very strange to me that a whole entire 'nother month has gone by.  On the one hand, I'm like "Seriously, it was soooo long ago that we celebrated Peter's birthday."  On the other hand, I'm all like, "WHAT?  Huh?  Already?"  I guess it's because a lot happened this July.  First there was his birthday, then Independence day, then his party and my birthday, then we went to Rhode Island.  After Rhode Island not much happened, but it's been a slow process adapting back to our own version of normal around here. 

Especially since somebody I know keeps rewriting the rules.

Seriously:  this month a lot has changed kiddo.

When we started things off you could walk, but it was very touch and go about whether or not you'd fall down.  You  always had your arms up in the air for balance.  Now your arms have fallen down to your sides and you practically run from place to place.  Plus, you're always carrying random stuff around.  Mostly, this means you transport your toys (big and small) from one room to the other for no reason what so ever.  But also you bring us stuff.  Little People figurines, toy cars, books, shoes, and random pieces of clothing always seem to end up piled in my lap where ever I am. 

And then there's the dog leash.  Obviously we keep it hung up high out of your way.  But after our daily walks you DEMAND to be allowed to take it for awhile and you will run around after your beloved puppy trying to leash him up until Matt or I take pity on the poor dog and take the leash back from you.

And then you get MAD.

Who taught you to have such an opinion anyway?

I mean I knew one was coming, but I guess I just didn't really expect it to emerge already.

You know what you want and you tell us in any way you can.  Usually this involves a loud whining/grunting noise or yell and you pointing one of your chubby little index fingers dramatically at whatever it is you desire.  Like the dog's leash.  Or, in the case of meal and snack times, a specific food. 

I first noticed the pointing demandingness at dinner.  You'd have whatever part of your dinner on your high chair tray but you'd point at something else and insist that I give you some or more of that.  It could be your milk or juice, which is fine.  Occasionally you want more potatoes or vegys, but usually you want fruit. 

Specifically: WATERMELON. 

You love yourself some watermelon, child.  I've seen you munch your way through enormous quantities of the stuff and than demand more with that determined pointer finger of yours.  I think it's because you were a summer baby and you naturally just enjoy the treats of summer.  Either that or I ate entirely too much of it towards the end of my pregnancy with you last year and I somehow influenced your tastes.

Anyways.  The fact that you know what you want it, is generally a good thing. I have many friends who spend a great deal of time teaching their children sign language so that their children can tell them what they need or want.  I'll be honest and admit  I never really bought into that idea.  I figured you'd learn to talk when you wanted me to know what your thoughts were.  Apparently, you proved me wrong though.  I might not be teaching you the tools of communication, but, dear boy, you're finding your own way. 

Like the other day, you were in your high chair refusing to eat your oatmeal for breakfast.  I couldn't figure out what the deal was because you've happily eaten oatmeal for breakfast just about every morning since you were 9 months old.  Then my bagel popped out of the toaster.  You nearly jumped out of your chair (despite being firmly strapped in) pointed emphatically and started whining like crazy about wanting that bagel.  At the time, I thought I might lose my mind.  It was MY bagel.  I was HUNGRY too.  I still haven't gained very much weight with this pregnancy and I don't want my baby to STARVE. 

But you wanted that bagel.

And boy did you ever let me know it.

(I lost that battle and you ended up splitting the bagel with me.  I think the oatmeal ended up spilled all over you and the floor.)

Sometimes, if there isn't any food around to point at, you wander over to your high chair and point at it or try to climb inside to let us know you're hungry.  (If nothing else, you're resourceful child.)

You also bring me your shoes and point out the back door when you want to go outside.

And you bring us the remote or a DVD or just point at the TV when you want to watch something.  It's nearly always Sesame Street, the Muppets or Elmo you desire.  (That's probably because those are really the only things I really let you watch.  Don't worry kiddo, football season is coming.)

So that's new.  You communicate. 

You even call me Mama a lot of the time, which I have to say is a vast improvement to just being screamed at, or, as you often did before, being referred to as Dada. 

Lately at night before bedtime you run around in your room and then try to hide behind the curtains.  You stand back there and giggle hysterically while I pretend to hunt you down and then at the last second you pull the curtains away and are all like HERE I AM MAMA- except you don't say it, you just go on giggling. 

*sigh*

The fact is, Peter, you're still my baby, but you're not a baby any more.  You've become a little boy.  I have mixed feelings about this.  You run around.  Or you sit quietly and play with your toys.  You like to sort the shapes and try to fit things together.  You love anything that makes noise.  You love books. You love the Muppets.  You love the dog. 

And I'm still trying to figure out where you learned to go and have an opinion. 

So, to sum up, my sweet boy, I can't believe how much you've changed this month.  I'm having a difficult time trying to keep up with it all.  But I'm so proud of you.  And I love you.  And most of all, I hope that whatever it is I do with you each day is only going to help you to continue to grow and develop into the amazing little person that you are meant to be.

Random Cuteness

This was taken back when we were in Rhode Island.  After the Aquarium we stopped at the store for some essentials.  Allison ran in and I stayed in the car with the kids since it was raining. 

I noticed the boys were having a little conversation so I got out my camera.

Then Peter says hello.

I have no idea where he learned to wave hello and goodbye but he does it all the time now and I confess, it melts my heart every.  single.  time.