I can't even begin to try to title this one

The scene: After finishing supper, Laura and Garrett decided to pull out the markers and paper while they had our full attention. After drawing several lines and circles, Laura wanted our input on her creation.

I'm M (mom), Seth is D (dad). You must envision Laura's commentary with very serious facial expressions and sweeping hand gestures. However, I know this story still won't make you dissolve into unstoppable laughter like it did to us. I don't even know why I'm writing this, really. But if you just stay with it, you'll be rewarded with a giggle in the end...promise.

L: Now see my picture, but you can't laugh. It is my PICTURE.

D: It's very good!

M: So beautiful, Laura!

L: Now, you tell me which paf to draw on.

D: That one.

L: Okay. I will draw on that paf. Now mom. Which paf do you want?

M: This path.

L: It's just a PAF.

D: A "pass"?

L: Yes, a pass. NO, NO. A PAF.

M: What is a paf?

L: It's THIS (pointing to a line). And this is a PEOPLE, and he has a hot air balloon hand. And this is a SLIDE, with this on it. It's like a SANDWICH. It tastes like burger.

D: Hmmm. Okay. Are you sure you don't mean a "path"?

L: NO, NO! NOT A PATH (enunciated perfectly). A PAF! DON'T LAUGH.

We're still confused.

So then, I tell Garrett to show Daddy the special picture he painted at Granny's today. See, I left the kids at Granny's while I went to lunch with friends. When I returned, G couldn't wait for me to see the special picture he painted for our friend "John" at church.

Now, you first have to know that John is the only African-American person that Garrett has ever known (we don't live in a very diverse area, to say the least). Garrett has been slightly afraid of John since he began attending our church. We have tried to be very non-chalant about it, and have been doing our best to show Garrett that John is our friend, and that we ALL have different skin colors.

So he shows me the picture he's painted, and tells me he would like to give it to John on Sunday.

It's a perfect painting of a person, head, arms, legs, body, painted entirely in brown paint, with huge white eyes and a huge white mouth. I thought it was so innocent and sweet, and a good sign of Garrett becoming a little less intimidated.

He pulls out the picture tonight to show it to Daddy, and Daddy makes a shocked face, then laughs. "Seth, he worked really hard on that," I say.

And then I see what Garrett has added.

A huge green penis.

God help us.

Good things come to those who WAIT

I'm HERE...it's my first post of the WEEK. See, "the week" to me means Monday through Friday, girls. However, I'm elated to know that you are all so excited to welcome me back! Wheeee!

I would have posted earlier in the day, but I had my 35 week OB check-up this morning, and then we had to run to the grocery store (I had to avoid my beloved Walmart, as a dead body was found in a car in the parking lot of the Walmart this morning. Yay.)

The OB visit was just a quick routine check up, and I was delighted to find I had gained just one pound over the last two weeks. Well, I was delighted for about 43 seconds, right up until the nurse put the blood pressure cuff on me and said, "We may have to use the larger cuff - but we'll see if the regular one works first." I wanted to swing my jiggly, pregnant arm fat at her and knock her out. And by the way, the regular cuff worked JUST FINE.

Today, you get belly pictures! I shall preface these pictures with my tale of Professional Portrait Hell. And then? You shall admire and savor each and every photo, and then send me numerous comments about how incredibly wonderful they are.

So I make an appointment at Glamor Shots (spelled wrong intentionally, so they can't bust me for illegally reproducing their stupid, over priced-pictures). I know it will be pricey, but I figure this is my last pregnancy and I should capture it in all it's glory on the most expensive photo paper ever invented. I also need the makeover, because at this stage of my pregnancy, I need professional help and very heavy makeup.

I was looking to spend no more than about $125 dollars. Please know that while I get professional photos of my children fairly often, I also hoard coupons for Penney's and walk out of there for about twenty bucks. $125 is my weekly Walmart budget (shut up, husband).

So we arrive at the mall. I HATE THE MALL. If you've been reading me for awhile, you'll remember the unfortunate incident where I fell in SOMEONE ELSE'S VOMIT at the mall.

Anyway, we all get our little makeover, and take family portraits first. Easy.

Then just me and Seth together. No problem!

Seth takes the kids for pizza at the Food Court while I stay behind for pictures of me alone. It was wonderful.

We finish the photos and I sit down to look at the prints on the computer and place my order. We're just starting to look through pictures when Seth returns with Garrett and Laura. It is 8:30 at night. This is where the shit started to hit the fan.

The kids are reasonably well behaved while we look at the pictures. Then my husband learns of the PRICE of the photos, and gets very red and sweaty. Basic sheets of portraits are $45 each. If you want any editing (say, to remove blemishes, sweat, whatever), it starts at FORTY DOLLARS PER FACE.

So, if we had wanted to beautiful portrait they showed us of our entire family, "glamour touched", it would have cost $205. FOR ONE SHEET. He then proceeds to tell the GS associate that, "This is PHOTOSHOP. I could do that myself at home. I cannot BELIEVE you are charging that." The associate cowers. I want to cry. I also want to give husband a swift kick under the table. I am also HORRIFIED at the cost. No "glamour touching" for us.

About this time, as my husband is sweating over the cost, my children are starting to feel at home...kicking, fighting, yelling, running. The photographer and makeup artist step in, thankfully, to help. One fixes Laura's hair in an updo and applies makeup, and the other plays with a beach ball with Garrett.

I tell Seth, "We just need to hurry up and decide. It's not their job to take care of OUR cranky children." Seth replies, loudly, that, "For the amount we're spending here, they can take care of them all damn night."

I feel bad about the excessive cost of the pictures I just HAD to have, I'm embarrassed about my children's behavior, I am hungry and swollen, and I am not looking forward to the money rant I'm going to hear all the way home.

We get the hell out of there, with three sheets of pictures, for $180. Plus the cost of dinner. Plus frozen custard on the way home for the weeping pregnant woman.

The children act like monsters all the way out. Laura wants to push the stroller, and nearly plows through a crowd of people. I don't want her to push it - Seth told her she could. We argue. As she is crashing through kiosks, my husband and I are arguing, and Garrett is jumping all around the candy machines (strategically placed every 200 feet throughout the mall) screaming, "I WANT SOME DESSERT! DESSERT, DESSERT, DESSERTTTTTTT!"

Then, I settle the stroller battle by taking one handle while Seth takes the other, with Laura still trying to push. This makes her irate. We look straight ahead, ignore the screaming and the judgemental stares, I'm hot and sweaty and trying not to sob, when a gentleman taps me on the shoulder and holds out Laura's shoe. It is then that we realize she has been on her knees, hanging onto the stroller with all her might, as we DRAGGED HER THROUGH THE MALL. And her shoe fell off in the process.

Seth makes for the fastest outdoor exit with Laura under his arm like a football (that is, if footballs could bellow and kick like all hell), and I continue waddling through the mall, with Garrett alternately begging for "Dessert" and to "go with DADDDDDDYYYY".

I make it to my car before I sob. And I sob all. the. way. home. And then some.

And to make this really long story short, GS called me a few days later with a "special offer", so I ordered some more pictures, and then some more. Our final total, including the original $180? Almost $400. I will post the most recent "special offer" portrait when it comes in. I may even scan and mail you all a copy, just to get my #$%$^^&%@ money's worth. Hell.

Yes, I am in a lot of trouble with the budget maker in our home. And no, the baby does not have a crib mattress, but DAMN, she has some nice first photos. Hee.

Note on the last photo: My belly and face do not REALLY look that good. I've been mercifully "glamour touched".

The Great Escape

Oh, fine. A bunch of you asked for it, so here it is...

...The Story Of How My Children Could Have Been Abducted Or Run Over Because Their Negligent Mother Was Not Watching Them Like A Hawk.

A few weeks ago, I had a monstrously big cake week. Needing some time to work, I sent the kids out to play in the backyard, where I can watch them from the kitchen window.

About ten minutes later, Garrett comes running in yelling, "We got the car in, mom! The car is in the house!" (He has one of those big, battery powered Jeeps in the backyard, which is currently without a battery).

I yell, "Get that car OUT of the house! That is an outside toy. NOWWWWW!" Then I say, "Wait - is the car UPSTAIRS or DOWNSTAIRS?"

"It's downstairs!" Garrett replies.

I can't figure out how in the hell he got the car into the downstairs, because there is a child doorknob lock on the downstairs door, and to get into the backyard, you have to go through the fence, which is also locked. I'm stumped.

So, I call my husband, who is working in his office downstairs, and tell him to check the doorknob and fence locks.

Husband eventually figures out what happened. See if you can follow:

1. Garrett gets the lock off the fence.

2. G pushes his Jeep through the fence and up to the back door.

3. G realizes he can't get the downstairs door open...it's locked from the inside and out.

4. G comes back in the house, through the unlocked kitchen door, and goes downstairs.

5. G undoes the deadbolt on the downstairs door.

6. G goes back outside, through the now open fence, and opens the now unlocked downstairs door.

7. G pushes the car inside the house.

But the story is not over. About the time we're realizing just what has happened, Laura comes running, pink and sweaty, yelling, "Daddy! I have your truck keys!".

We open the garage to assess the damage.

While Garrett was attempting the Great Escape from the backyard, Laura had taken advantage of the open gate.

We found toys out in the front yard, handprints all over the truck, and the keypad to the garage was opened up.

They both got spankings after we explained that they could have gotten hit by a car ("But we didn't go in the ROAD, mom!"), or that someone could have taken them ("But that guy on the bike didn't take us!" - great...witnesses to my negligence).

Please understand that this ALL took place in the space of TEN MINUTES. And the scary part is, when I looked out the window to check on them every few minutes, I could always see or hear one of them. They obviously knew to "cover" for each other so that I wouldn't know what was going on.

Finally, to our question of "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING???", Garrett said, "I just wanted to get in the garage to get our bikes," and Laura replied that she "wanted that candy from Daddy's truck." (there was a candy bar wrapper on the floorboard)

Is anyone else seeing a 16 year old Garrett stealing our car from the garage, in order to drive a 15 year old Laura to the gas station for a candy fix?

Because I am.

Uh-oh.

Looks are deceiving...

Now THAT'S more like it...

Laura's Birth Story

Ooh, I have so many things to blog about! Laura's birthday party, the Birthday Cake Disaster, the mushy "wah, my baby is three!" post...

...but today, you get Laura's birth story. Enjoy!

*******************************************************

It took us close to a year to get pregnant with Garrett, so when we decided to have a second child, we thought we should get an early start so that they would be around two years apart. Little did we know how much easier it would be the second time around, and we found out we were expecting our second child when Garrett was just ten months old.

My pregnancy with Laura was mostly uneventful. I bypassed the massive swelling that I had with my first pregnancy, and gained less weight than I did the first time. The only weird problem was toward the sixth or seventh month, I would be walking and my entire leg would give out. I would get up, "adjust" my belly, and would feel better for a while. I think she was sitting on a nerve.

I was also exhausted during this pregnancy. I was chasing a one and a half year old little boy and teaching full time (I was pregnant for the ENTIRE school year) with the most challenging class I've ever had.

With a second pregnancy, I found you just don't get the luxury of a nap before supper, soaking for hours in a warm tub, or sitting for half an hour just watching your tummy jump around. At the beginning, I would sometimes forget I was pregnant.

Belly pictures, seven months pregnant:

Garrett kissing "his baby":

Around my 36th week, I started having regular contractions that were very bothersome. While I was hoping for just a FEW weeks of bedrest, I didn't get it...I got some medication to relax my uterine muscles instead. My doctor also discovered that I was 3 to 4 centimeters dilated...and I walked around that way for the next TWO AND A HALF WEEKS. However, it was encouraging, considering the hours of painful labor that it took for me to get to 3 cm. with Garrett.

I was due on April 27. My maternity leave with Garrett had been at the very start of the school year, and felt very difficult to prepare for. But THIS time, I had The Best Gift A Teacher Can Be Given...a STUDENT TEACHER. She was awesome, and I was ready for my maternity leave in March. And not only was I prepared as far as plans, copies, etc., I was mentally ready to check out...my class was very difficult, and I could not WAIT to turn it over to someone else. I didn't even care what they did after I was gone (they only had a month left anyway).

Nothing truly dramatic led up to Laura's birth. My body seemed to know what it was doing this time around. On Friday, April 16, I woke up around 1:30 a.m. and had to GO to the bathroom. I came out ten minutes later, told Seth to call the babysitter (a friend volunteered to stay with Garrett if I went into labor overnight), call the doula to meet us at the hospital, and to put my bags in the car. And then I went back to the bathroom.

After my bathroom trips, my contractions quickly became very painful and were about three to four minutes apart. I tearfully kissed little Garrett good-bye, and we set off for the hospital at around 2:00 in the morning.

By the time we arrived at 2:30 a.m., I was already 5 cm. dilated and was immediately taken to a delivery suite. I had chosen, again, to labor and deliver with no pain medication. Again, my reasoning has nothing to do with being a martyr or trying to prove a point. I just needed to prove to myself that I had it within me to cope with the pain that comes with delivering a child. It's an amazingly powerful thing to realize just what the female body and mind are capable of doing. While I am proud of myself for making the choice to appreciate my labor, pain and all, I also know that I was lucky to have an uncomplicated delivery that made it possible.

With Garrett's labor, I had HATED being in the bed and needed my husband constantly. My coping mechanisms were so different this time:

I spent most of the contractions on my left side, in the bed, holding my doula's hand and staring at the pattern of her heather gray hooded sweatshirt.

I occasionally sat on the birthing ball, where I stared at the flowers on the wallpaper border and tried to WILL MY CERVIX TO OPEN.

That's it for coping mechanisms. I just remember staying really, really zoned out. It was extremely painful, but I was also not nearly as afraid this time around. I knew I wasn't going to die from labor.

My doula was also a great comfort to me this time. My husband was a great comfort and help too, but there is nothing, NOTHING, like having a woman there to support you (and for me, that needed to be a woman that I liked being around, but NOT one I have emotional ties to, like my mom).

I mean, when A WOMAN WHO HAS HAD CHILDREN AND HELPED DELIVER BABIES tells me, "You're doing so well! Yes, that sensation is normal. Everything is perfect! This is a textbook labor! I promise, you're NOT wetting your pants / pooping on the table!", it's just more reassuring than it would be coming from the nervous, pacing husband who has been drinking coffee for five hours and has never had the experience of an 8 pound baby coming out of him. I needed my husband there, don't get me wrong. But we both agree that hiring the doula was The.Best.Money.We.Ever.Spent.Amen.

Around 6:30 a.m., I started sobbing uncontrollably. I wailed about missing Garrett, not being ready for another baby, and wanting to go home. I remember wanting to stop crying, but physically couldn't do it. That's when the doula decided the nurses should probably come check my cervix.

The doula knew - I was going through transition. When the nurse checked me, she found that I was 9 cm. dilated and called my doctor.

He arrived around 7 a.m. and said, "If I break your water now, we'll have a baby in half an hour!" And I screamed, "NOOOOO!" After some convincing from the SANE, non-laboring people in the room, my water was broken and I dilated to 10 cm. within minutes.

And THAT is when I knew pain. The most horrible, pelvis-breaking, make-you-throw-up, break-out-in-a-cold-sweat pain imaginable. And that is when I said, "I think I want the epidural. I changed my mind!"

The news was gently broken to me that we were WAAAY past the epidural point, and that I could start pushing now.

Now here is what's interesting to me about my labor. I NEVER felt the urge to push. I always hear and read that it's an uncontrollable feeling, that you HAVE to push. I didn't, not for one moment. In fact, I had to be told when to push. For me, pushing was way more painful than contractions. I could have labored all day if it meant I could avoid that damn pushing.

So began the pushing, at 7:00 a.m. And then came the screaming. I screamed my freaking head off like I have never screamed before, and I swore like a sailor (but worse). The nurses protested, but my doctor stopped them. "She is pushing better when she yells. Let her yell!"

About halfway through, I lay back on the pillow and said, "I want to go home now." My doctor said, "She wants to go home. Ah, that is so cute." (You must put the doctor's comments in a Chinese accent...he is Chinese and has a very dry sense of humor).

I was given an episiotomy (didn't feel a thing), and our 8 pound, 3 ounce baby was delivered at 7:21 a.m. When they said, "It's a girl!", I responded, "Are you teasing me?", and then I asked for a throat lozenge.

I assumed I'd been pushing for about two hours, and was in awe when I found that I'd only pushed for around 20 minutes. I got stitched up, and kept waiting for our new baby girl to cry. I had heard just small whimpers, and I kept asking if she was okay. Every time I asked, the entire room would shout, "Oh, she's just fine!" I didn't find out until hours later that she hadn't been breathing and they had to put a little mask on her face to get her started. My husband had been watching the nurses in terror.

However, within thirty minutes, all was well and my little red, round faced daughter was nursing for the first time.

Laura's first day home:

Laura's birth announcement picture. She's one week old. I took a picture of her with this bear every month until she was one.

Garrett, 19 months old, with his brand new baby sister:

Laura, 3 weeks old, with Mommy at a school baby shower.

P.S. As soon as I have some time to scan pics, I'm going to add some better shots on this post and Garrett's story too!

Where is MY binky?

There is this certain little almost-three-year old that is the light of our lives, and also our resident trouble-maker / home-destruction-expert. Witness:

However, this certain three year old is also (currently) my youngest child, my only daughter, and my BAY-BEEEE.

Under my protest, her sitter weaned her off the bottle at 11 months.

She potty trained herself in a day (okay, three) right after she turned two.

Then about two weeks ago, she switched from crib to big-girl bed without so much as a whimper. Couldn't she at LEAST have given me a damn whimper?

But I still had one baby card in my pocket...the Binky.

When she would lose them (like, six times a day), I would make a trip to Walmart for "just some milk and bread, I swear!", and conveniently pick up some extra binkies until the old ones turned up.

Once, when there was no way to make a trip out for a replacement binky, I dug out a pastel blue newborn size binky from my son's baby memory box and let her have that.

And another time, when we forgot to pack a binky on an overnight trip to Grandma's house, I made my husband stop at a tourist-trap convenience store to pick up one of the dusty binkies that had surely been on their shelf for seven years.

Just call me the Binky Nazi.

When people say that their baby "won't take a binky", I say "HA! YOU are not trying HARD ENOUGH." Binky-addiction takes WORK, friends.

I TRAINED my children to love that binky, and it has served us well. I even shared my "just tap the end of the pacifier a little bit, and they'll just suck away!" tip with all of my new-mom friends.

And recently, since Laura is nearing three, we've been hearing lots of, "Oh, you're a big girl! You don't need that binky!" And that is partially true...LAURA may not need the binky, but what about MEEEEE?

So, knowing that the time was coming, I told her we would be "taking the binkies to the hospital, so that all the new babies would have a binky". We planned on taking the big trip on her third birthday.

But then. Then, she lost EVERY LAST BINKY (we still don't know where any of them are) about a week ago. My husband had to physically restrain me from going to Walmart in my pajamas at 9 pm for replacements (as many replacements as I can FIND, dammit, she's a BAY-BEEEE, and she needs her BINKYYYYYYYYY).

So, under husband's orders, we endured three nights of Laura's temper tantrums, screaming, bucking, and moaning, and two missed naptimes.

And this is how it all ended:

Wahhhh. My baby doesn't need a binky anymore. Weep with me.