Pithy, ain't she?

I started back to work this month after a very speedy 8 weeks of maternity leave. One evening Brian was on his way home after working out of town all day, so we girls were on our own for dinner. It was pouring down rain, and there were 3 cranky kids in the back seat, so I stopped at the KFC drive-thru to pick up a chicken dinner. I wanted to try those strips, and I ordered some side dishes to go with the meal, but I didn't realize that the combo I ordered came with individual sides, instead of the large family-style containers I wanted.

So I got the food home, where there was plenty of chicken for everyone, and I split the 2 sides between Helen and Alice. Helen asked for seconds on the mac & cheese, and I told her there wasn't anymore, and I told her why.

She put her head in her hands, sighed, and said, "Some days are just like that."

Indeed they are, Helen. Indeed they are.

The Incredible Hulk

So, here's what happens when you get a 4-year old and a 20-month old set up with a movie, get a newborn fed and off for a nap, leave your husband watching the Military Channel, then step into the bathroom for a quick shower.

Thank God for washable markers, and Mr. Clean Magic Erasers.

My in-laws came to visit this past weekend. They came to see all the grandkids, including their first look at Jane.



Alice is enjoying having someone smaller than her in the house. She loves to give the baby a kiss.



After watching way too much of the NBA playoffs on TV, the whole family headed outside for a quick game of catch with a football. I sent Brian out with the camera to get some pictures while I fed Jane. As he was taking this shot, Helen's voice rang out across the yard, "I've got it!"

Too bad there is clear photographic evidence to prove otherwise.



This is my favorite picture - FINALLY I got one of Jane's dimples on digital media. There's a matching dimple on the other cheek. And Brian is amazed there are any cheeks left, with how much cheek kissing goes on around here. Go ahead. Try not to kiss the computer screen when you look at that dimple:

Dreams Fulfilled, Right Here

Many years ago, there was a James Bond named Timothy Dalton, who may have looked the part but had trouble acting better than a wet stack of newspapers. Plus, everyone knew that Pierce Brosnan was born to be James Bond, because he totally looked the part. No one cared about the acting. I swear it.

Anyway, in Pierce's first foray into the role, I hardly noticed the acting, because there was a scene where he drove this absolutely beautiful blue BMW convertible. Long story short, I fell for both the guy AND the car. I even dreamed about having that car. Being single, it seemed a shame to waste my time driving such a practical thing like a 4-door Honda Accord. And then I'd think, hey, that cute little 2-seater convertible is not the car for you. You need a trunk and a backseat.

Why? I don't know. I just know that at times, trunk space and backseats come in handy. Plus, I'm a Taurus, which means PRACTICAL is my middle name. And COST is something that factors into everything I do. Remember, I'm the kid who wanted to be an accountant when I grew up. I'm basically the most boring person on the planet.

Fast forward to when I was first dating Brian, and he asked me about my dream car. I waxed poetic, perhaps a bit on the longish side, about this beautiful car that I would never, ever buy. I know next to nothing about technical aspects or features or the eventual comparison to a Mazda Miata, but I know beautiful cars and beautiful men driving those cars, and the image had stuck with me. If I ever win PowerBall, that would be the car for me. Even then, I would be standing in the dealer's lot, calculating the lost interest on the money I was about to spend, and deciding I would still need a trunk and a backseat.

So. Since that conversation, Brian has been shopping for this car. Honestly, he has to shop for cars like some people have to breathe. You know, all regular-like, and necessary to continuing life. Occasionally, I'll look up one evening and notice him staring intently at the laptop screen, lost in another world. I'll remind him to breathe, and he'll just click another link on the Craigslist site.

In the years we have been together, he has learned everything there is to know about this car - how many versions of the engine they made, what the options are, and what makes one better than another. He has spent years looking at listings online, stopping by to chat with dealers and reading up on the specs. He knows the car inside and out. Me, I like the looks, and that's enough for me. Specs, schmecs.

Anyway, one evening about a month ago he interrupted the TV show I was enjoying behind closed eyes to show me pictures of a BMW Z3. Not just any Z3, mind you - blah blah blah, wipe sleep from eyes and notice it's red, blah blah blah, aren't wheels are special, check out these 50+ pictures, it's the deal of the century, blah blah blah.

I murmured something which may have been vaguely complimentary, and promptly shut my eyes again. This was my mistake. It resulted in a car payment.

Years of shopping means that once you see it, you know it's the real deal and you have to have it. Brian spent the next few weeks getting his ducks in a row and checking it all out from stem to stern. And he spent just about every single day getting me on board with the idea of buying it. Finally, he came home an official owner. Yes, we have three kids, and my husband bought a 2-seater convertible. The practical side of me screamed and writhed in agony.

Once it got home, I took it for a spin. Let's just say it's a flat-out awesome vehicle. With the wind in my hair, and the sun on my face, I felt transported back to my single days and on my way to Pierce's house. So now I know why Brian's been shopping all this time. That feeling is addictive, and it shut up Mrs. Practical for good. I know she's off in a corner somewhere, muttering darkly. I just can't hear her with the top down.

Concertgoer

Back in mid-November I was perusing the local free newspaper when I discovered a full-page ad for a John Mayer concert coming in February. Tickets were going on sale the next day. I have a little thing for that guy and his music. Those early songs still captivate me. Plus, he's sort of easy on the eyes, you know?

So I mentioned it to a co-worker, and then I quickly did the math. By early February, I would be 8 months pregnant. A rock concert might not be the best place for me. Still, I was pretty pumped about the idea of going.

I have a friend through work who moonlights in event security - you know, one of those guys in yellow shirts at concerts and sporting events that keeps the rest of us from rushing the stage or the field - and he told me that an 8-month pregnant woman would be perfectly entitled to sitting in "disabled" seating, which has very easy access to the exits and restrooms. Sounded pretty good to me! Still, I didn't actually went to purchase the tickets. But I was daydreaming about it. I'm just far too boring to do stuff like buy concert tickets anymore.

Later I mentioned it to Brian, who thought it sounded like fun, but it was one of those conversations that kind of went "Hmm. Sounds like fun." You know, where you're pretty sure the other person wasn't paying much attention. So I went back to daydreaming.

Fast forward to Christmas morning. Brian had me open my present from him first, which turned out to be a lovely black purse. I totally needed a new purse but hadn't even thought of buying one for ages. So I thanked him for it, and set it aside, and that's when Brian said, "You might want to look inside it." Inside the purse was a gorgeous pair of earrings, and a pair of tickets to the concert. I teared up immediately in front of my whole family.

Brian said I could make it a girl's night out if I wanted, so I asked our Amazing Babysitter if she wanted to go. Being female, she said heck yeah. We made plans to do the Happy Hour at the upscale bar across the street from the arena, and then go to the concert afterwards.

I work close to the arena, so we were able to just walk 2 blocks to the bar and then to the show. Very easy for Preggo, and safe for late at night, too! Then, to top it off, during the opening act, my friend who works security showed up at our seats and gave me an advance copy of the set list for John's show. So we knew ahead of time what he would be playing - that was so darn cool.

Wow. Just - WOW. Turned out to be an amazing concert. We had front row seats in the balcony, with a perfect view of the whole arena. We never had to stand up except to give him a standing ovation at the end, and we had very reasonable people sitting all around us who calmly enjoyed the show as well. (Except for one looney tunes girl who screamed through all of one of John's solos, but security took good care of her.)

Here was our view of Mr. Mayer himself:

And here are 2 very happy concertgoers:

What a husband I have - he paid to let me go ogle another man all evening! I mean, enjoy some great music and a super fun night out. I haven't done that in forever, and it was wonderful to have him treat me to a great night out with our Amazing Babysitter. I will remember this concert for a lifetime. Thank you, honey!

Birth Story

March marked the last month of my pregnancy, which I spent feeling enormous. it didn't help that all of my co-workers told me I looked huge or imitated my pregnant waddle when they saw me walking down the hall. I didn't measure any bigger than normal, and in fact I kept the weight gain down to a reasonable 25 pounds for the whole pregnancy. But I carried it all right in front of me, like I was smuggling a fit ball under my shirt. That kind of physique doesn't lend itself to comments on how slender you might be.

That last month, I had lots of Braxton-Hicks contractions regularly. Sometimes I even had real contractions that would last for the better part of a night or a day. Everything ached, everything was uncomfortable, and once in a while if I was lucky, I got 4 hours sleep in a row. But if the 4 hours started when I passed out on the couch around 9:00, I would spend the early morning hours surfing around the net or looking for something good to watch on TV, and then I would show up for a full day at work totally exhausted.

Life as a very pregnant lady is not that much fun.

About 2 weeks before my due date, I found out I was 4 cm dilated. So that explained a lot of the pain and the contractions - I was making progress. I got excited, and I cleaned the house and got ready to have the baby any time. In fact, I packed my bag and carried it to work with me. Every single day I took that bag to work, and every night I put it by the bed. I was ready to go, just in case something happened at work.

About a week before my due date, I spent the better part of a Saturday morning timing contractions. They got to 6 minutes apart - nothing terribly strong, but definitely the real thing - so I woke Brian up, and called the Amazing Babysitter to come over and watch the girls while we headed to the hospital.

It was a bust. Still at 4 cm after 2 hours, they sent me home. They said I needed to be at 5 cm to stick around, and to come back when the contractions were 3-5 minutes apart and a lot stronger - or if my water broke.

After a week of no progress, we set up a planned induction for Monday the 22nd, and I powered through a to-do list on my last day at work. That weekend I mapped out my big house-cleaning push. I split up the chores over Saturday and Sunday, so I wouldn't wear out too much.

Saturday night I woke up around midnight with a contraction. Eventually I worked out that they were about 15 minutes apart, and at that point I was wide awake, so I picked out a movie to watch. About 3:30 am, I went to the bathroom, and at that moment, my water broke. Wow. Talk about having been there, done that! I yelled for Brian a few times, and he finally heard me from the bedroom. Since our Amazing Babysitter was out of town that night, he called our backup - Brian's fishing buddy D., and D's girlfriend. To their credit, they arrived swiftly. In the meantime, my contractions got a lot stronger, and a lot closer together. By the time we pulled out of the driveway, they were really painful, and they were about 3 minutes apart. To top it off, every other contraction lasted about 2 minutes. So it felt like I really wasn't getting a good break, and that the baby was definitely on its way. I crossed my fingers that it wouldn't happen in the car.

On the way to the hospital, I decided to go ahead & get the on-call OB awake and on her merry way. Turns out, there was a very nice guy on call that morning, one that I'd never met. Great. I told the answering service what was going on and where we were. They asked a couple of questions, and told me the doctor would call back.

Brian dropped me off close to the door, and another contraction hit me as I was walking into the lobby. I parked my butt on a couch just outside of the admitting office and yelled for the staff to let them know I was there, while Brian was parking the car. It took them a while to realize I was yelling at them. Since the contractions weren't letting up, they got a wheelchair to pull me in. I spent a total of 20 seconds being patient while they tapped around on a keyboard, trying to pull up my information. Finally, I snapped. I was going to have a baby in that lobby if they didn't get their act together. So I very loudly spelled my last name. I figured out it was being rude when Brian tried to shush me. The on-call OB called us back at that point, and I got on the phone and told him where we were and what was happening. Then I told him this was my 3rd baby, and I think that snapped the gears into place for the staff. Suddenly, I had my wristband and I was being wheeled off to triage.

We got to the triage desk, and the nurse was on the phone asking someone about me. Turns out, the on-call OB had called ahead and told them I had to skip triage - do not pass go, do not collect $200, send her straight to a delivery room. And oh, get the epidural in her, now.

Thank god for that OB. I hadn't met him yet and I already wanted to hug him.

We got into a room, and although I was still having some contractions, I got on a hospital gown and got on the bed. I kept asking about the epidural. I did not want to miss out on that. I had gotten to about 7 cm dilated with Helen but it never hurt this much. Oh my lordy, the pain. The contractions were absolutely murdering my resolve to keep it together and focus. I was panting like a mad woman. The nurses had to tell me how to breathe - apparently I was huffing & puffing so much, they were worried about me hyperventilating and passing out.

They asked me a few questions, which I felt was entirely unnecessary at this stage. But I tried to cooperate. When they asked me about my water breaking, I told them yes, it had, and it was kind of green - that got their attention. Apparently that means there's a baby who has pooped in my womb, and that could be an issue if she breathed it in during delivery. So they got a special tech and some of the NICU nurses on standby.

While we were waiting, they put in my IV and told me they were giving me a lot of fluids in order to spread out the contractions a bit, so that they would have time to do the epidural. I didn't notice much of a change. Still very painful, and I was not handling it well at all. I kept thinking of all the women who chose to do this childbirth thing naturally, or the billions of women who managed to give birth without epidurals before, and questioning why in the world anyone would sign up for that much pain at once.

Eventually a woman showed up to give me the epidural. It was probably only 10 minutes or so of total waiting, but it felt like much longer. I had to stay still while she prepped my back, lying on my side for two contractions. That was difficult, but the delivery nurse held my hand and chattered through the whole thing. Focusing on her hand, and focusing on staying still, and knowing that sweet blessed relief was coming, I was able to hold it together for that magic shot.

We had a different on-call OB since I was so close to delivering. The one I spoke to on the phone was on his way, but hadn't arrived yet. The one in the room was there to catch the baby in case I had to push. Clearly he had been awoken from some deep sleep, because I remember his hair was sticking up on one side, and he was apologizing for that when he came in the room.

In the meantime, the anesthetist must have loaded up on my epidural because once it hit, I was more numb than I can ever remember being for Helen or Alice. They also gave me an oxygen mask - apparently all that heavy breathing that I wasn't doing right was a big worry for the baby, too. A few contractions later, I felt a lot of pressure and burning, and they said I could start pushing. On the first push, the on-call OB showed up, so he and the other doctor switched places. I was so numb - I knew how to push but couldn't feel anything. I kept telling them, I don't know if this is working. They assured me it was fine and that I was doing a good job.

Apparently it was fine, because the baby came out on the 3rd contraction. Seriously. Maybe 5 or 6 minutes of pushing? That's it. She was ready to go.

So Jane Anne Wyatt was born at 5:21 a.m. - less than 2 hours after my water broke. Most of which was spent waiting for the sitter, driving to the hospital, and praying I would get that epidural in time.

And I did, but just barely.

She came out so quiet, and I know they don't want babies to suck in air or cry until they get all of that fluid cleaned up and out of her nose and mouth, but I started to worry. Suddenly, she gave a big wail, and I knew everything was fine. The NICU nurses cleaned her up and handed her to Brian.

One more happy, healthy baby.

Pay attention to the signs

There are numerous commercials on TV about men with GOING problems and women with URGES. I've talked about medical issues on the blog before, but still, this one seems radically different - like, "wow, I didn't know that could happen to someone I know." But yes. My name is Jennie, and I have a bladder control problem.

There. I said it.

Here's the deal. Every woman knows that the days and weeks following childbirth isn't exactly the ideal time to make us laugh heartily, or you'll find us racing for the bathroom. Even a couple of sneezes or a strong cough might be dangerous. But well after I had Alice, those moments continued. The coughing especially causes problems for me. After going through multiple pregnancies, I've learned there's a ton of things that NO ONE EVER TELLS YOU (my sister is vigorously nodding her head right now), and I had just assumed this was one of those things. You know, random times when you wet your pants as a 30-something adult - must be kinda common, right?

Have I ever mentioned I'm not a doctor? Okay? Might be important to make a note of that.

So last September, I'm at one of those indoor bouncy castle jump places for one of Helen's daycare friend's birthday parties (yes, I know. Sigh. DON'T ASK.), and I get to take Alice with me, too. It's her first time, so I head inside one of the bouncy things with her to jump around and see what she thought. Holding her in my arms, I experiment with a soft jump or two.

And promptly pee all over myself.

Okay, I think, that was not good. Fortunately I was wearing dark pants, but wow. Not good.

So a week or so later, I mention it to my mom, thinking she'd commiserate with me. After all, I'm 30-something, and she had me when she was not that old, maybe in 3rd grade, so that makes her um, what? Older than me? Anyway, I figure she might have had the same problem, and we could laugh about it together, right?

There was silence on her end of the phone. Finally, she says to me, "Jennie, that's not normal. You need to go to a doctor."

My first thought was, really? Not normal? And then I thought, okay. Maybe not. I mean, maybe I get to be one of those women who pays attention to the commercials about women with URGES and asks the doctor about the pricey brand-name prescription drug. It took me a few days to wrap my head around it. And steadily, over the next few weeks, the URGES got worse.

So I call the doctor for an appointment. I mention the symptoms to the nurse, and she says that sometimes bladder infections can cause leaking. Okay, I think. Maybe it's just a low-grade infection, after all this time. I can deal with that, just a simple fix with antibiotics. This doesn't have to require lifelong Depends purchases. This doesn't mean I need to visit a restroom every hour. Okay. Sign me up for that one.

I pee in a cup and give some blood, and the doctor sends me for an ultrasound to see if my bladder is doing anything strange. And I find out that the reason my leaking has gotten worse lately is due to an 18-week old baby curled up right on top of my bladder. Heart rate looks great, all the measurements are fine, and all the features look perfect. It's a girl, who's been quietly hiding out for over 4 months. And as I look at the tiny baby on the screen, I go blank, and the tears well up.

Then I think to myself, "Depends would have been so much cheaper."

Just shut up and drive.

This morning we headed to Target to purchase Halloween candy in bulk.  We stopped at McDonald's to get a quick drive-thru breakfast.   Brian and I are playing the McDonald's Monopoly game, and collecting the little tickets like mad, hoping to win our retirement.

One of the best deals going is at breakfast, where you can get 2 hashbrowns off the dollar menu.  Each hashbrown comes with 2 game pieces, so add in my large Coke with 2 more game pieces, and I've spent $2 to get 6 pieces.  Of course, I haven't won a single thing but you can't win unless you play, right?

Once we got the food, I peeled off the tickets from the hashbrowns.  I then picked up the Coke to take a sip.

Jennie:  Hey!  Our drinks don't have game pieces!

Brian:  I know.

Jennie:  We got screwed!

Helen (from backseat):  Mama, what's screwed?

Brian:  You got this one, Mama.

Name that Baby

I was putting Helen to bed the other night and she asked me as I tucked her in, "Mommy, why did you name me Helen?"

Very simply, I told her that I wanted her to have a beautiful name that nobody else had, and so we picked Helen.

I gave her a kiss and a hug and told her good night. She's asked me a few times since then, and I always tell her the same thing.

Actually, there was a LOT of thought and discussion that went into naming both girls. With the first pregnancy, we had decided on a boy's name fairly easily, but I didn't invest too much into thinking about that one, since I knew I was having a girl. A few weeks later, the ultrasound proved me right. Ha! 

Brian and I debated for months between our fiercely-held positions on long-favored names, and I quickly discovered there was no middle ground. Brian had coached hundreds of young children in his career as a swim coach, and saw the entire gamut of names for girls and boys. As you might expect, some special kids stood out, and he really liked one name in particular for a girl: Miller.

I had a roommate in college who turned out to be impossible to live with, but I loved her name and vowed to save it for my own girl one day: Olivia.

Keep in mind, I'm a Jennie, born in the 1970's. My goal in picking a name was basically to find something nowhere near the Top 10 list of baby names, so she wouldn't grow up as one of four girls named Jennifer in every class. So imagine my utter disappointment when I learned that Olivia had skyrocketed to #6 on the list during my pregnancy.

Brian hated the name Olivia. But I hated his name choice just as much. So after several months of tug-of-war, with no one gaining any ground, we decided to abandon our choices and come up with a different name that we both loved. Brian brought home a baby name book and we made some headway marking the names we liked or didn't like. We put the names we both liked on one long list, and each night while watching TV, we'd go over the list and slowly mark off ones we weren't really excited about keeping. I stuck to classic names that were popular around my grandparents' era, which is harder than you think because of all the Bettys and Ethels. Brian really liked Emma, until I had to point out that every other kid was getting named Emma, thanks to Rachel on "Friends."

Eventually, we cautiously circled around Helen for a first name - a good classic name that was in the Top 10 about 5 decades prior to her birth, and currently hovering somewhere around #390 on the Social Security website's list of popular baby names. We had not picked a middle name, but had narrowed our long list down to several choices that might be good.

And then I went into labor, 5 weeks early.

In the delivery room, right after I got the epidural, Brian said, "You know, we might want to pick a name for this baby." After confirming that Helen would do for a first name, Margaret seemed like a good pick for a middle name, so under the quickening pace of contractions - yeah, let's do this thing. The on-call doctor walked in and asked if we had a name yet. I told her "Helen Margaret" and she beamed. It turns out Margaret was her name.

It felt like it was meant to be. Today, I can't even picture Helen as anything else. She's Helen, and I'm proud of our solid work on that one.

Alice's name was a little harder to pick. We wanted something with the same classic ring to it, but felt like we had worked so hard to hit the mark the first time that the second one wouldn't come close. We have a good friend named Alison, and Brian thought that would be a good name, but again - too close to the Top 10. But a variety of that name, Alice, hit me one day at work, and sort of grew on me after a few weeks. Years earlier I babysat a little girl named Alice, who by the age of 2 was much smarter than me, and I had a great-aunt that I never knew named Alice that was sort of legendary in the family for not taking guff from anyone. So that seemed like a great, strong name to borrow.

About a month before Alice was born, we were in the car headed to a family reunion. Brian suggested that based on past experience, labor would be forthcoming any time, so we should go ahead & pick our Top 3 names, and vote. Helen voted for Sarah, and Brian & I settled on Alice. We were running short on middle names, but we settled on Suzanne, which is the name of Brian's grandmother and seemed to flow well between Alice and Wyatt. (Helen swore she would call the baby Sarah anyway.)

So we had the name picked a month before Alice was born, but didn't tell anyone until the day she arrived. It worked just fine for Helen, and we figured it would be okay for Alice, too.

To this day, the name Alice fits her like a glove. I couldn't be happier that we picked it. But you could have watched me faint dead away when I walked into her daycare 8 weeks later, and discovered there was already another Alice in her room. We mothers finally met a few days later and turned on each other, accusingly, "WHERE DID YOU GET HER NAME??" Turns out, it was an old family name, and they just liked it. Okay, fine. I was grumpy for about a day, but really, both girls were so cute together. Three months later, Alice Senior moved to a new daycare closer to her mom's work. Alice Junior easily settled into her role as Just Alice. But I've taken to asking the name of every new baby in the nursery, just in case.

And now, we have to find a third girl's name by the end of March.  Wish us luck.  This one might end up "hey you."

In Hot Water

Last night we were in the living room, and Helen asked me if she could get some grapes from the fridge.  I said sure.  This required moving a chair from the kitchen table to the counter, so she could reach a bowl in the cabinet.

 

After she came back into the living room with a bowl full of grapes, I heard the dishwasher kick on.  I think there were, oh, about 4 dishes in there, since I had just unloaded & reloaded it.  It's got a front panel with flat buttons that you push to select your cycle, similar to a microwave.  Then it turns on.  No dial to set or anything.  It's very convenient for a child to turn it on, and it is one of my biggest pet peeves to hear it start in the early evening, since it wastes a lot of hot water right before bath time.  I am OCD about not wasting hot water before a planned bath or shower.  It is my cross to bear, and no one else's, but I have set times in my head when it would be convenient to turn on the dishwasher, and any slight deviation is just ruining a good hot shower.  Even with our upgrade last year from a 40 to a 50-gallon tank, I am still bothered by an hour's worth of hot water (and no dishwasher soap), especially when it's churning around 4 dishes.  

 

And given the ease with which a child can operate this dishwasher, you can imagine that I have to deal with my OCD on a regular basis.  I have come to realize she tests me, but it's free therapy.  One day, it might cure me of this obsession with having plenty of hot water.

 

Jennie:  Helen, did you turn on the dishwasher?

 

Helen:  No.

 

Jennie:  Well, Alice is out here with me, and Daddy is out here with me, and none of us turned it on.

 

Helen:  I didn't do it.

 

Jennie:  The dishwasher is on, Helen, and you were the only one in the kitchen.  Who turned it on?

 

Helen:  It just came on, all by itself!  (holds up hands in air, like "whodda thunk it?")

 

Brian:  (hides his face from Helen so she can't see him laughing)

 

I'm pretty sure when she moved the chair up to the counter, it hit the panel.  I'm not sure what setting she used - last night's self-imposed therapy involved grinning and bearing it instead of racing in there to turn it off - but it took over 2 hours for the cycle to end.  Those 4 dishes got the cleaning of a lifetime, but too bad!  No dishwasher soap = second cycle for you, with a bigger crowd next time.  And soap. 

 

I know my other OCD friends would approve.

Alice is around here, too, I promise.

I realize I've been writing a lot about Helen lately, and not so much about Alice.  I promise you, that girl is the biggest ray of sunshine.  She wakes up with a smile on her face, and sometimes she even falls asleep that way.  She spends her breakfast time giving me the biggest grins, and she is so proud of herself running around the house and climbing stairs and chasing her sister, that she smiles the whole way.  She gets so many compliments whenever we go out - "Oh, what a beautiful baby!" complete strangers will say.  The clerks at the grocery store love her.  She is one sweet little girl.

 

Sometimes she fusses about being picked up or having a toy taken away.  That's her job, as a 13-month old, to let me know in no uncertain terms how she feels about things.  And when she doesn't have the words, it's very easy for her to wail. 

 

That's right.  Alice doesn't have many words right now.  Basically, she can still say "tickle" and sometimes she says "Da-da," after a ton of prompting, and "Ma-ma" after a ton more prompting, and a couple of times earlier this month she told me "Hi."  A new word about 2 weeks ago was "Kitty."  She says that on a more regular basis than anything else these days, but only after a lot of prompting.  So she's a repeater. 

 

I am not sure why she is so much farther behind Helen's development on her speech, but I'm not complaining about it right now.  I have one 4-year old who talks enough for the entire family, so a quiet toddler is just fine.  I know the pediatrician has an expectation of how many words she should have in her repetoire, and I know Alice is behind that curve right now.  Again, it doesn't worry me.  They both walked at about the same time, and she's a happy kid, eating well and growing like a weed.  I also know that younger kids might not follow the same path as the older ones.  They concentrate on walking or talking, and Helen has clearly focused her energies in one area for a very long time.  It's evident from all the bruises on her shin from bumping into everything - walking is just not a priority to her.  She talks and sings all the time, just to hear herself make noise.  At dinner, while we're eating and Brian & I are talking about our day, Helen will say, "Mommy?  Mommy?  Mommy?  Mommy?" until I finally ask back, exasperated, "HELEN, I AM TALKING TO YOUR FATHER AND YOU ARE BEING RUDE TO INTERRUPT US.  WHAT DO YOU NEED?"  She will respond, after a slight pause, "I love you." 

 

Clearly this was not what she originally planned to say.  She wanted my attention for something, and getting it in an angrier fashion than she expected, she switched tactics.  Surely, her little kid brain told her, I can't possible argue with a daughter's LOVE?  Grrrr.

 

I may not ever teach Alice to talk.

The one with the Ariel story.

So this past weekend Brian went out of town to visit our Navy friend W., and I was at home by myself with 2 kids.  I think there was a 30-minute span one afternoon when they were asleep at the same time, and it was sheer bliss to take a bath in the total silence.  I've kind of forgotten what that's like.

 

We had Movie Night on Friday, and Helen looked forward to it all day.  We made popcorn after Alice went to bed, and watched a sequel of The Little Mermaid, which is more like one of those Star Wars "prequel" things in that all of the action in this straight-to-video number takes place prior to the giant movie release from my high school years.  "Ariel's Beginnings" I think it was called.

 

Side note:  Some of you non-parental types who have seen the first Little Mermaid movie may dimly recall that Ariel was one of 7 daughters of King Tritan.  Nowhere was her mother to be found in that first movie.  We learned in the prequel that at a very young age, Ariel's mother was smashed against the rocks by a pirate ship that happened upon the mer-people's day of fun along the shoreline.  Yes, I had to watch this with my daughter.  Holy crap, Disney.  A little bit of warning, huh? 

 

Side note, sequel: "After Further Thought":  My parents took me at age 4 to see my first movie in the theaters, which turned out to be a Disney double feature: Bambi and The Rescuers.  I'm pretty sure between those two gems of (1) onscreen parental murder and (2) adoption gone awry, complete with alligators, my parents had some 'splainin to do, too.

 

Anyway, the music is awful in this Ariel movie.  There's not much to recommend it, especially when compared to the original release, and I wouldn't watch it again if I was paid.  Helen on the other hand, has already scheduled another viewing for this evening.  Argh.

 

I also rented a musical by the name of "Annie."  Oh, don't roll your eyes at me!  Watching this movie again for the first time since, well - dang, I think it's probably been 20 years - was truly fun.  I had forgotten how funny Carol Burnett was, and how young Albert Finney looks!  For comparison, watch "Erin Brokovich" and really stare at Ed Masry.  Yeah, that's him.  His eyebrows have positively taken on a life of their own.  

Annie was a lot cuter to me this time around.  Must be more of a threat when you're a kid; you probably take the whole concept of orphanhood more personally.  

 

So when we talked to Brian on the phone Saturday night, I made sure Helen asked if he was her Daddy Warbucks.  Apparently, the answer was no.  I will have to remember that, and see if I can return these movies on time.  Oh, and buy more lottery tickets.

Helen is in LOOOOOOVE.

I have changed names to protect the innocent, but there is a little boy in Helen's class that we'll call Peter. Helen played with Peter quite a lot when she first arrived at daycare, and talked about him at home, but then she gradually moved on to playing with girls. To be honest, I was sort of relieved about that, because Helen was one of very few girls at her old daycare. Apparently there was a baby boy boom in that neighborhood for about 6 months, and Helen was the only girl for miles. So for the first 3 years, she naturally played with all the boys. When she moved to the new daycare last year, old habits took over and she joined up with the boys, but this new room was about half girls, and I think eventually that "playing kitchen and babies gene" kicked into overdrive, and she came home talking princesses and ponies and unicorns and told me all about her new best girl friends. This fall I haven't seen hide nor hair of that little boy, so I assumed he might have moved on to kindergarten.

So it sort of surprised me on Friday to hear her in the backseat on the way to the video store telling me that she loved Peter SOOOOO much (cue weepy teen angst voice, really) and wanted to play with him ALL the time. Turns out he's still there; he comes to school later and gets picked up earlier so I hadn't seen him. When I asked her why she loved him, she said it was because he was nice, and sometimes he played with her, and sometimes he did not. Plays hard-to-get, that kid.

Seriously? People, she's FOUR. I think I was about 13 when I went full-on boy crazy. I certainly never told my parents that I loved anyone SOOOO much. Not that I remember, at least. And the last time I actually told Brian that I loved him SOOOO much was when he steam-cleaned the living room carpet.

So yeah, I'm not really sure where all of this comes from. All I can say is, it's a good thing she sleeps on the 2nd floor, and that our stairs are really creaky. Just sayin'.

Finally, a new post.

I keep meaning to write blog entries and never get around to it. It's getting ridiculous. I need to just do it.

Helen is turning into a complete and total adult, 4 going on 14. She tells me what to do all the time. Based on this observed behavior, I think she will grow up to be a teacher. Really and truly, I have some basis for comparison - my mother was a teacher, and my little sister grew up to be a teacher. They *still* tell me what to do all the time. It's one of those deeply ingrained habits that I now realize comes from, oh, birth.

When I ask Helen what she wants to be when she grows up, she says she wants to be a doctor for kids who get shots. Lately, Helen has been very worried about getting shots. Her little sister is currently in a pediatric study for the H1N1 virus, and Helen was panicking at the thought of having to get the shot herself. Unfortunately, they already had filled their quota of 4-year olds (although, knowing kids at this age, they said "we'll take one 4-year old, thank you"), so Helen lucked out. And then one of her friends goes and ruins everything, telling her at daycare one day that when fall gets here, she has to get a shot. Coincidentally, the teacher has been counting down the days in class time each morning to the first day of fall.  Poor Helen.  Yes, I was planning to do the seasonal flu shot, so I confirm for her that will probably happen next month. So Helen will periodically burst into tears and tell her teacher that she doesn't want fall to come, because she definitely doesn't want a shot.  Her father & I have basically told her that it doesn't hurt but for a second, and it means that she won't end up in the hospital at Christmas time, and have to get a BUNCH more shots. But kids don't really understand the whole ounce of prevention thing. They're really into the whole evading any pain at all.

She also tells me that she wants to be a doctor for kids with bumps on their skin. She recently developed these spots under her arm and on her thighs, and after doing a ton of Googling, I figured out it's this. She said she doesn't want kids to get those bumps. Considering Wikipedia says they could last up to a year, it's an admirable trait, I think. Plus, dermatology? Cha-CHING.

Then she tacks on, "and I want to be a princess, a mermaid, a ballerina and an astronaut."

Okay, I'm not sure who's paying for all that schooling cuz med school alone is like WHOA. So, we're buying lottery tickets this weekend. Wish us luck.

Alice is One

Alice's first birthday came with a little bit of excitement.

I was sick as a dog on her birthday.  I came home from work early the day before, with a horrible stomach bug, and spent the evening trying not to see, smell or even think about food.  The next day, I slept and tried to figure out how to make cupcakes without getting ill.

Somehow, that afternoon, Mom Adrenaline kicked in.  My girl had to have her birthday cupcakes, and I was not going to cave and buy those sickly-sweet store-bought versions.  So I mixed and stirred and baked and gagged over the aroma of freshly baked cupcakes, and frosted them with possibly the best frosting I've ever made.   I couldn't even taste it, but I'm pretty sure that frosting kicked butt.  (Tip:  Hershey's cocoa has a frosting recipe on the back.  Use it, people.  You'll never buy frosting in a can again.)

Coincidentally, we had spaghetti for dinner.  Alice wore hers, mostly.  So that meant we had the first giant cleanup of the evening, before I could take pictures of her eating her cake.  It meant cleaning spaghetti off the high chair, the floor, and her head.   Then I stripped her down to a diaper, and got her cupcake ready to go.  

Not exactly the reaction I expected after all the effort I put into making those gag monsters.

Eventually, she did appreciate it.  I think the frosting changed her mind.

And of course, then we had cleanup #2.  I carried her straight up to the tub to get frosting and cake out of every nook & cranny, and later cleaned her high chair.  Again.  But it was totally worth all the queasiness to see her that happy.

I can't believe it's been a year since we brought her into the world.  What an amazing little girl she is.  Happy Birthday, sweet pea!

It's Already Started

We are enjoying a spaghetti dinner at the kitchen table.   Brian & I are talking about something that happened at work, and suddenly Brian notices that Helen has dumped about 10 tablespoons of parmesan cheese on her plate.

Brian:  Helen,  that's enough cheese!

Helen:  (freezes, fingers covered in cheese are stuck in her mouth)

Jennie:  Seriously.  Enough.  (moves parmesan away from Helen)

Brian:  Helen, I don't want you to just eat cheese.

Helen:  (still frozen)

Brian:  I'm not mad at you, sweetie.  I'm just saying, don't you think that's too much cheese?

Helen:  (shakes head no)

Jennie:  Wow.

Brian:  Okay.

Helen:  (still quiet, head down)

Brian:  What's the matter?

Helen:  Nothing!

Jennie:  (has to turn away & cover mouth to keep from laughing out loud)

Brian:  (resigned sigh) I won't make it.

Jennie:  (holds up 4 fingers)  She's FOUR.

Italian in a Small Town

It was 1997, and I had moved back to my hometown after a relationship tanked miserably. My parents very graciously allowed me to move back home, ten years before all the cool kids were doing it. After a few weeks of job hunting and wandering around my boxes and figuring out what to do with my life, I finally resigned myself to being a permanent resident of the town where I graduated from high school.

Yep, I went to get a new drivers license.

The county where my parents live is mostly rural. They reside in the more populated northern side of the county, which bumps up against a large metropolitan county. So I could have gone downtown to get my license, but instead I headed south to the small county courthouse, just for the experience. My parents told me where to find it, and wow. It's a tiny downtown. There's one stoplight in the town square, a few small stores, and the old courthouse. Here's a picture I found online:


I found an empty parking space on the street, right in front of the building. What kind of planet had I landed on? Further evidence of having left actual terra firma for parts unknown: there were only TWO people in line at the License Window. Cue angels singing Hallelujah!

Drivers license, fishing license, boat license, license plate for your boat, your car, your RV, etc. - all of this happens at the same License Window in the courthouse. Ahh, small towns. I immediately vowed I would never go to the downtown DMV again.

I told the woman at the window that I had just moved from Utah, and needed to get a drivers license. Clearly, this woman thought I was coming from another country (she was about half right), and although I didn't know it at the time, one vital word could have saved my morning from heading off the rails, right here ... but I didn't say it. She told me I needed to head over to the "Buchellus Building" to get my license.

"Where?" I asked, not sure I understood her accent.

She pointed to a doorway, which led to a parking lot. "It's across the parkin' lot, the Buchellus Buildin'."

Okay. I had no idea what I needed to do in this other building that couldn't be done at the super-nice, all-inclusive, no-waiting License Window, but I dutifully headed to the parking lot.

While I walked, I tried to figure out who the heck this "Buchellus" might be. Some Italian, I wondered, had settled here, of all places, and got this small town to name a public building after him! Amazing.

Once I made it across the parking lot, though, I started laughing. Over the top of the door, the sign proudly declared: "The Frank 'Butch' Ellis Building."

Inside, I encountered a small group of about six people, seated in chairs lining a hallway. It appeared to be moms with their bored-looking teens. So of course I started to get nervous that I would have to retake the drivers test. (Anyone remember what the fine is for littering on the highway? Yeah, I don't either.) I grabbed a copy of the drivers manual sitting on a table nearby, and took a number. Sitting down, I flipped through the book, awaiting some clerk to tell me it was my turn to fail. I overheard one of the moms say that she was really worried about her daughter's driving test, since that four-way stop intersection nearby was pretty tricky, and she wished they had gone to (even smaller town) instead for their test. That comment made me giggle, picturing my own drivers' test about a dozen years earlier. It was on the wrong side of downtown in the previously mentioned metropolitan area. To compare, a four-way stop in that neighborhood might be the ideal location for a carjacking.

Eventually, one of the clerks came back from administering a driver's test, and he did a double take when he saw me. Apparently that building was for teenagers anxiously awaiting freedom, not adult children returning to the nest because they couldn't make their first post-college relationship work right. I got to skip to the head of the line. Thank god for small favors, because it was at this point I learned I did not have to retake the test. Sweet! Then I learned that since I previously had a license in that state, he sent me back to the courthouse to get my old license number dug up and reinstated. I had just spent all that time waiting for him for nothing. That one vital word I should have told the first clerk? I had just moved BACK from Utah. Tips 'em off that I used to live here, la ti dah, here's your old license. None of the co-mingling with sweaty, nervous teens, none of the worries about re-testing decades after Drivers Ed, none of it. Ah, well.

Back across the parking lot. Back to the short line at the License Window. One photo session and small fee later, back to owning my new/old license. Again.

To sum up: there are no famous Italians in small rural Southern towns. Four-way intersections freak out moms of teenagers, probably because they know their own kids are so bad about taking turns. When you leave your hometown, YOU NEVER REALLY LEAVE YOUR HOMETOWN. Even the DMV is just waiting for you to mess it all up and come crawling back.

And no matter how far into the woods you drive, and no matter how short the line is, it still takes forever to get out of the DMV.

The One Where I Try to Gnaw on Her Cheeks

Alice's first word is "tickle."  

Really.  Yeah, I know.  That's what I said.

The daycare teacher told me about 2 weeks ago that when she tickles Alice, she'll say "tickle tickle tickle" while she does it, and now Alice says that back.  Alice *loves* to say it, even when they put her in the crib for a nap, she'll say it to herself as she's falling asleep.   The only time she won't say it is when I am *trying* to get her to say it in front of other people (sigh).   Anyway, this morning Alice was in her highchair and Helen stood next to her, and Alice reached over with her hand to touch Helen's shoulder and said "tickle tickle tickle." No prompting from me, I hadn't been tickling her - she had finished eating breakfast, and I was taking pictures of her holding her baby doll. Just spontaneously, she reached out to do that to her sister. Cutest. Thing. Ever!  



So I told that story to the daycare teacher this morning, and she said, "Oh, all the nursery parents just love Alice, because when they come in, Alice crawls over to the babies and touches the babies' feet and says, 'tickle tickle tickle.' "

My heart just melted.  I COULD EAT THAT KID UP.

Helen is 4!

Helen turned 4 this month. I am not sure where the time has gone but she is surely the youngest 4-year old I know. On the other hand, I've aged a whole decade. Hmm. Funny how that works.

Helen received many cards and gifts and well wishes from her family and friends.  As her birthday present, I took a day off work and we had a Mommy-Daughter Day. I planned a special agenda with good times for her on the agenda. Helen, meanwhile, got the bright idea to dress up fancy for Mommy-Daughter Day, and she woke up at 4:30, ready to go.  I had to shut it down and send her back to bed.  About 2 hours later, she arrived downstairs in her Tinkerbell costume.

I oohed & aahed over her outfit. Helen then asked me why I wasn't dressed fancy. I looked down at my jeans and Wonder Woman t-shirt and thought, oh heck. Her birthday is once a year. Back into the closet I went, digging out a dress from the dry-cleaner bag that I hadn't worn in ages. Fortunately it zipped. Matching shoes, and we were good to go. We stopped by Brian's work to get pictures made.



Dear Reader, we were the best-dressed girls in Waffle House for breakfast that morning. Fortunately, those waitresses have seen it all, and they don't bat an eye at this kind of outfit. Now, if we'd shown up at 2 a.m., it might have earned a raised eyebrow, but at 9 a.m.? "How do you want your eggs, sweetie?" Nobody even asked about the costume.

One trip to Target later, we were the proud owners of a new booster seat for Helen, plus an impulse purchase of Disney Princess pajamas. Then we headed to the movie theater to see "Up." We had to get the all-important Sprite and popcorn, and of course, the movie was in 3-D so we wore our glasses. Helen was far more interested in the popcorn. I loved the movie.

Mom's Official Movie Review: What a wonderful movie! Perhaps a little scary for younger kids, with big growling dogs in several scenes, but honestly, what a great story for adults. Dear Reader, you should watch it, too. Pixar could use your revenue. I worry about them sometimes.

After that, we went to get mani-pedis at my favorite salon. Speaking of which, I want to publicly apologize to everyone in Li-en Nails for your lack of a relaxing experience on the afternoon of Friday, June 5. I agree, the meltdown over messing up the toe polish was unwarranted. Helen has agreed not to make such a fuss again, either. And you don't have to worry - our next visit together won't be for a few years, or at least until we (read: she) can manage to sit long enough for the nails to dry before heading out the door.