Bye-Bye Bee-Boo

As if I needed anymore evidence that my two children are entirely different from one another, add exhibit 9347: the pacifier. We call it a bee-boo in our house, mostly because that's what Logan named it. When Katherine was a baby, we just called it a pacifier. Miss Katherine had a pacifier for about 5 1/2 months. And I do mean one. We owned one single pacifier and she never really cared about it too much. Mostly we used it to stifle the shrill, brain-piercing crying when we were in public places so as to keep strangers from giving us death stares. Then she clued in to the fact that no matter how much you suck on it, nothing comes out. So, she decided one fine day to just spit it out and move on to bigger and better things (like sitting up).
But Logan has been a lifelong bee-boo junkie. He has to have his fix. After he collides with something/someone, nothing soothes him better than a long drag on the bee-boo. At bed time and nap time, nothing but the bee-boo will do to ease him into his REM cycle. And it has been this way since the nurses in the NICU plugged him in. He loves his bee-boo like Dobby loves socks.

But then back around January when Logan started speech therapy/special ed, his teacher requested that we give the bee-boo the old heave-ho. She felt (and I agreed) that if he was sucking on that thing, then he'd have a hard time learning to talk. Plus he had a couple of teeth that hadn't completely grown in, leaving a convenient gap for the bee-boo to rest. He looks kind of like those olde timey people who had notches in their teeth from chewing on a pipe all day long.

Gradually we got the bee-boo away from him during the day. He still needed it at nap time and bed time, but we were able to snatch it away from him as soon as he woke up with decreasing tantrums.

Then a couple of days ago, Casey managed to convince Logan to put the bee-boo in the designated post-nap spot willingly. "Bee-boo in," Casey said and pointed to the bread basket. And I'll be darned if he didn't put that "bee-boo in." This was a major sign to us that the bee-boo was (finally) becoming less important to him.

So last night Casey pulled the plug permanently. I don't have the fortitude that Casey does; I'm swayed too easily by those tear-filled eyes and that trembling chin. I'm so glad he's willing to be Bad Cop sometimes, otherwise Katherine would still be wearing diapers and Logan would have that bee-boo until he got married.

About an hour after Logan went to bed the crying switched from "Hey, Mom!! Bring me the bee-boo!" to "Holy Crap! She's really not coming! Gaaaaaaaaa!!!" Casey noted the change and said, "He seems to be past the denial stage and has entered the anger stage." I laughed, but it seemed that as the evening progressed he went through the rest of the stages of grief.

Some 30 minutes later he switched crying again, and began the puke-coughing. Now, Logan is no good at puke-coughing (Katherine however, was a pro which is why we own a carpet shampooer, in case you ever need to borrow it). He tries, but has never successfully made himself vomit......until last night. We heard that ominous "uuuurrrp!" and knew we had to intervene. That was the bargaining stage ("Heh, if I puke, they'll have to give me the bee-boo lest I do it again").

I cleaned him up and Casey changed his sheets and Katherine slept through the whole thing, bless her heart. While Casey cleaned up the bed in the dark to avoid awking Katherine and did the sniff test on all his bed toys, I rocked with him in our bedroom and the true sorrow of the situation seemed to come upon him. I'm not entirely certain I have ever seen him more bummed out. That was the depression stage.

Then we laid him back down on some new sheets minus his blanket (which I just washed because of a diaper overflow...grr) and a stuffed moose and he started crying again, but it was only half-hearted. Eventually about two hours after we put him to bed the first time, he gave up and went to sleep (acceptance? I reeeaaallly hope that was some measure of acceptance and not just exhaustion). I'm glad it only took two hours to get him to sleep. I have seen enough Super Nanny to know that dislodging the pacifier from a child's life can mean many, many sleepless nights for everyone in the house.
Update:

Today at nap time he cried for about 40 minutes before he gave up, so at least he's gradually accepting the demise of the bee-boo...sort of. We'll see what bedtime tonight brings. And maybe if we're really lucky, those teeth of his will grow in all the way.

It's a Boy Thing

My two year-old son is awesome. He is sweet and snuggly and funny and he enjoys a good game of "Run and Scream." But he is definitely not a girl.

I grew up in a girly house. My poor dad never stood a chance. It was me, my sister and my mom (and the cat was a girl too) pink-ing up the house for him and spreading our cooties all over the place. So, I have no idea how to be around boys. And now I'm supposed to raise one.

When the ultrasound tech told us we were having a boy, I was excited, but I was also kind of scared because I am not a boy and I never had any brothers. But I decided right there on that table with my belly covered in surgical lubricant that I would raise a "nice boy." You know, the kind of boy who holds the door open for you, walks old ladies across the street and likes to play quietly with puzzles and read books. I was definitely NOT going to have a rowdy boy who pulls on girls' pigtails and burps the alphabet.

Fast-forward two years and my plan isn't exactly working out. I have to say that Logan is quick to give hugs and will often try to console his sister when she is crying. But, my goodness, he is LOUD! I went running a few weeks ago and I could hear him yelling halfway down the block. He also seems to only have two speeds: full throttle and unconscious. But I think the place where I'm losing the most ground is in his vocabulary. In the last two weeks, Logan has picked up a bunch of new words which include, but are not limited to: pee, poop, burp, toot (his word for passing gas) and bum. I don't have a problem with these words as a general rule; they are useful words that describe bodily functions and body parts. I even taught him most of them, but I most certainly did not teach him that these words are funny. He learned that one all by himself. And as much as I wish he wouldn't yell "Bummmmm!!!!!!!" and howl with laughter, I have to admit it is pretty funny to see him laughing so hard.

He has also mastered the role of "pesky little brother." He just loves to play with his sister's toys, but according to Katherine he does it wrong and it makes her crazy. But the louder she yells, the funnier he thinks it is. He teases his sister by stealing her dress-ups and wearing them wrong ("Logan! Take off my apron! It does NOT go on your head!!!") or driving her Barbie car Thelma and Louise-style off the ottoman with appropriate sound effects.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am raising a rowdy boy who loves to bug his sister and eat bugs. But the more time I spend being the mother of a boy, the more I realize that his rough and tumble ways don't bother me. I love that he has such a zest for life and that he takes joy in just diving in head-first (you know, except when it's into a piece of furniture). In fact, I'm proud of the person he is and I love him exactly the way he is. But, let me be clear: he may burp the alphabet some day or follow in his father's footsteps and eat erasers to gross out the girl who sits in front of him at school,  but he will also hold doors open for you and walk old ladies across the street. He may be wild, but he's no caveman.

PS: Happy Mother's Day

The Importance of Very Small Things

I had a unique experience recently. I was fortunate enough to meet one of my very favorite authors, Alexander McCall Smith. He writes several series of novels, but my favorite is a series of books which are classified as mysteries, but they really aren't. They follow a woman around through her daily activities as she solves cases for the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency she founded in Botswana. Mostly the stories follow her mundane daily activities and the problems of her friends and family. Very little detection actually takes place. Mr. McCall Smith even jokingly said that, "Nothing much happens in my books. There are enough things going on in the world without authors adding to the problem." In the rest of his talk, he drew from other examples of his work and the writings of others as he talked about the importance of the small things of life. He said that the small things are what mostly fills up a person's life and shouldn't be looked over.

After his talk was over and I had my book autographed and my photo taken with him, I thought about the small things in my life and what they mean to me. My thoughts took me two different directions. I immediately thought of my family and all the meals fixed, diapers changed, games of Candy Land played and how I resent these things sometimes. As long as I have been a mother I have struggled with motherhood. I have always wanted to contribute to the world with a rewarding job. Being holed up in the house all the time makes me feel detached from the civilization. My own universe is so small: groceries, laundry, library. I have no idea what's really going on, just that Katherine ran into a wall again and Logan threw a fit when I trimmed his nails. Most of the time, I enjoy being with my kids, but there are days that those diapers and toys just pile up and I want to run away screaming and go live on a beach somewhere, sipping tropical drinks.

Then I thought if how upset I would be if I had to give those things up (the diapers and toys, not the tropical drinks, although that would be sad too). To me, nothing beats those sloppy, wet kisses and baby giggles, or even the endless hours of getting after Katherine for leaving her tiny toys on the floor that Logan is eating. The very small things of my life (and they are very small) are really what make my life something special.

The Rules of Hockey

Yesterday while we were making dinner, Casey and Katherine were talking about words that rhyme. Somehow the word "hockey" was rhymed with something (I think it was "sock" but we're working on it :) ) and Casey asked Katherine what hockey was. This was her response (as best as I can remember it)

Casey: What's hockey?
Katherine: It's a word. And it's on the ice.
Casey: The word is on the ice??
Katherine: No, they go on the ice and they hit the hockey circle with the golf clubs.
Casey: So, it's a game?
Katherine: Yes. And they wear football helmets.
Casey: Wow, that sounds like fun.
Katherine: Yes.
Kirsten: So, how do you win hockey?
Katherine: You hit the hockey circle into the soccer goal.
Kirsten: Really? So, what is it called when you get the hockey circle in the goal?
Katherine (rolling her eyes): *Sigh* It's a goal, Mom.
Kirsten: Oh! I didn't know that!
Katherine: Yeah, and if you miss, it's called a strike.
Casey: *Snigger*
Kirsten: So, it's "three strikes and you're out?"
Katherine: Yes. And you're out.
Kirsten: So what happens when you're out? Do you get to play anymore?
Katherine: No. You have a time-out.

The Myth Called "Me Time"

Editor's Note: I started writing this particular post before Thanksgiving, which should illustrate my point nicely.


Yesterday, I was trying to write a grocery list. I thought that I would do this while the kids were eating lunch. They'd both be distracted and in the same room. But I was not successful in writing a grocery list. This is what happened instead:

The local grocery store does not send us a weekly ad. I do not know why. The grocery stores from 15 miles around send us ads, but the one down the street doesn't. So if I want to look at the ad for this store I have to look it up online and that means I am not in the same room as my kids.

I set up the kids with plates of yummy, luscious, artificially-colored macaroni and cheese, a favorite in our house. I locate a piece of paper and a pen and sit down at the computer. I manage to write "Groceries" at the top of the paper and then I hear, "Mah! Mah! Mamamamamamamama!!!" This is Logan asking for more macaroni. I set the paper down and get him more macaroni. I come back to the computer. I hear, "Mom!! I want summore!" I sigh, get up and go back to get Katherine summore macaroni, but she doesn't want macaroni. She wants water. So I get her the water. This pattern continues, Logan, Katherine, Logan, Katherine, until finally I unplug the computer and bring it into the dining room and just pray I don't get mac 'n cheese on the keys. Now suddenly they're done. Logan starts yelling and flinging macaroni at the ground and somehow manages to get it in his hair. He doesn't even have hair in the usual sense, just peach fuzz, but the macaroni sticks anyway and I see cheese sauce in his ear. Lunch is officially over and all I have accomplished is to write "Groceries" on a piece of paper and walk around a lot. Three hours later (I'm not lying) the grocery list is finished and we head to the store. We barely beat Daddy home and Logan is MAD because he needs a nap. Sorry, dude. I know you need a nap, but we all need to eat, so learn to make some sacrifices for the Greater Good and you can have an extra-long nap tomorrow.....maybe.

When I have experiences like this, which is pretty much every day, I think of these experts on the Today show and Oprah and other shows who say that stay-at-home moms should take some "me time" and go to a spa or read a book or take a nap or go out to lunch with friends. This is supposed to recharge your motherly batteries and allow you to face the macaroni grenades with a smile. To that I say, "Hah! If you were actually an expert, you wouldn't say things like that! Don't you know that 'Me Time' is a myth and searching for it will only lead to heartache and sorrow?!?"

I used to believe in "Me Time." I used to watch for it, wait for it, but it never came....EVER. I tried what the experts say I should do and "carve out" Me Time from my schedule. Well, I am here to tell you that that does not really work. If I have this Me Time during the day people suffer and we either don't eat or are naked because I selfishly read a book and therefore failed to buy groceries and do laundry. Or worse, somebody ends up needing stitches because he (yes, it's the "he" child that does this) climbed on something and I wasn't there to pull him off.

If I have Me Time and my husband babysits, that's not a guarantee that it will turn out well then either. I love my husband dearly and he is an excellent father and jungle gym. But he is not used to the constant noise, cat-harassing, and general shenanigans around here because he has a job and talks to grown-ups all day who don't throw food or pee on the bathmat when they're six inches from the toilet. He hasn't developed that stay-at-home parent filter to know what to just let go and what needs attention. Mostly I think this filter is just plain-old-ordinary exhaustion and I can only muster up the energy to deal with the really important (ie: someone is going to die if I don't intervene) things. So, being a dutiful father who loves his kids, he tries to keep everyone out of everything and it makes everyone angry and tired. But seriously folks, most of the time I come home and find the children asleep and my husband in a good-ish mood.

But I don't feel like it's fair for me to disappear and leave my husband to watch the kids anytime I feel burned-out, because that would be pretty much every day and I'd never see him. And anyway, I like spending time with my husband. In fact, I find that spending time with this man who is really too good for me is an excellent way to recuperate from the day. So instead, I have reconciled myself to the fact that Me Time will happen once the kids are in college. And do you know what I am going to do with my first legitimate Me Time? I'm going to write a grocery list!

Adventures in Reading: H0ttie M@les

So I was in the kitchen today, stacking the dishwasher, water running, and Katherine hollered at me from the dining room...

Katherine: Mom, what is H0ttie M@les?
Mom: What?
Katherine: I said...WHAT IS H0TTIE M@LES?
Mom: What?! (silently pleading that she heard wrong)
Katherine: What......Is.....Hot....Teee.....Males?
Mom: Where did you hear that?
Katherine: I didn't hear it. I read it.
Mom: Uh...ok. Where did you read it?
Katherine: Here on the red thing from my Halloween bucket.
Mom: (Having internal struggle. She is suddenly thinking she has some very progressive neighbors. She wonders how in the heck she could have missed this particular "goody" when she went through the bucket. She goes into the dining room).
Mom: Show me.
Katherine: Here! What is this?
Mom: (laughs with relief) Oh, Hot Tamales? They're cinnamon candy.



PS: My creative spelling is merely a tactic to prevent perverts from finding my blog if they google cerain words. We'll see if it works. Apparently if you google "These mashed potatoes are so creamy" you can find my blog on the first page of a google search......above the "While You Were Sleeping" IMDB page all because I quoted it once. So, we're being more careful now.

(R)evolutionary Idea

If you know me, you might have heard me wish out loud at some point for a third arm. I have said it before--and I'll say it again--that I think while a woman's belly is growing and her whole body is changing anyway, why not grow an extra arm (complete with fingers, of course) during pregnancy? Believe me, I would use it!

I can't tell you how many times I have needed that extra arm. For example, this morning I was changing a poopy diaper. Logan is at that fun age where he is learning about his body, so while I was trying to wipe poop off his bum, he was trying to thwart me and distribute the poop onto nearby books, toys and his face. Yuck!!! If I had had that third arm, it wouldn't have been a problem. One hand to wipe, one to hold on to his legs and that third arm to keep his hands out of the mess.

After embarking on this adventure called Mommyhood, I feel like I have gotten pretty stinkin' awesome at doing things with the hands I have. I can unscrew the lid, fill, nuke and re-screw the lid of a bottle/sippy cup while holding a screaming baby. I can carry a baby, diaper bag, purse and up to 4 bags of groceries up three flights of stairs to the third floor where we live. I can unfold a stroller with a baby in my arms. When Logan was tiny, I could even use a public bathroom without setting him on the floor. I will tell you that buttoning your jeans while holding an infant is no small task, but I have done it! The problem comes when there's just no physical way of working around the lack of hands.

Like after I have climbed the three flights of stairs with the groceries and all that stuff, if my key gets stuck in the door (and it usually does), I need two hands to yank on the doorknob while jiggling the key and occasionally pounding on the door and getting mad and praying I brought the cell phone in case the door won't open and I have to call maintenance. That would be one instance when a third arm would be nice.

So next time I get invited to be on the Human Evolution Committee and we're voting on what we're doing next, I'm all over this third arm idea. I know that ditching our baby toes has been winning straw polls and caucuses and stuff, but I really think this is the direction we want to go. So tell your Congressperson to vote "Yes" on the "Giving Moms a Hand Up" initiative.

Yarrrrr!

Today is International Talk Like a Pirate Day! I have celebrated this auspicious holiday for years, mostly by remembering that it's International Talk Like a Pirate Day as I'm on my way to bed. At that point I do my best "Yarrrrr!" at Casey with a mouthful of toothpaste and promise myself that next year I'll remember before bedtime.

So, this time I actually remembered! In honor of my rememberingness, I went to a sage old pirate and he bestowed upon me a real, honest to goodness pirate name so that I can be all fearsome and stuff. This is my pirate name with accompanying description:

My pirate name is:

Dirty Morgan Cash

You're the pirate everyone else wants to throw in the ocean -- not to get rid of you, you understand; just to get rid of the smell. You're musical, and you've got a certain style if not flair. You'll do just fine. Arr!

Get your own pirate name from piratequiz.com.
part of the fidius.org network

Then, of course, I had to get my family involved. Casey learned his pirate name too. We must really be married. Same last name and everything!

My pirate name is:

Dirty Harry Cash

You're the pirate everyone else wants to throw in the ocean -- not to
get rid of you, you understand; just to get rid of the smell. You're
musical, and you've got a certain style if not flair. You'll do just fine.
Arr!

Get your own pirate name
from piratequiz.com.
part of the fidius.org network

Yarrrrr!

Too Cool For School

Katherine missed the deadline for kindergarten...barely. So of all her friends she is the only one not going to kindergarten this year. Two Tuesdays ago was the first day of school and Katherine was not happy to be excluded from it. She cried when we drove past the elementary school and she saw the swarm of kids with their backpacks and all the school buses and begged me to take her. "I will be good!" she cried, as if her behavior was somehow the reason she couldn't go to school. When I explained, again, that she was too young, she said, "But I will be five on my birthday! I am a big girl!"

Back in February, Casey and I decided to have Katherine tested for early enrollment to kindergarten. We felt that she was outgoing enough and smart enough to fit in with the older kindergartners. When we got the test results back, we were pretty disappointed. Katherine had scored quite high on math and reading and had done well in General Knowledge (whatever that is), but she lacked the dexterity (in other words her handwriting was awful...which sadly is an inherited trait. Neither Casey nor I is going to win a handwriting competition any time soon) and the maturity to really be a good candidate. She was still four after all.

In retrospect, there are things I would have done differently. I also have my opinions about the testing process, but it is what it is and I can't change the school district's decision. I try not to think about it too much because Mama Bear comes out and I know I'm being biased. Every mother thinks her child is the brightest and beautifulest and the most special child ever. But mine really is! (kidding!.....kind of) Anyway....

During the summer, I looked into preschool for her, but all the private ones were WAY too expensive, like the price of college tuition expensive. Some of the elementary schools around here have free Pre-K for those who are low income or have a child with special needs. The rest of us get put on a waiting list where we languish and die. Until I learned about the school district's Pre-K program, I was never unhappy about Casey's job. For one brief moment I actually wished he was a grad student again! Then a beautiful ray of sunlight pierced the preschool gloom. That ray was called Joy School.

I have a friend who is participating in Joy School with a few other ladies around town. She told me about it and said they were still looking for one more mom to spread out the load. I jumped at the chance. It's not free and it is certainly not easy, given that I will have to teach one week a month, but it sure beats the pants off $238 a week (!) plus miscellaneous fees and......ugh....fundraisers for preschool. It also gives Katherine a classroom atmosphere that isn't Sunday School. And it gives me two whole hours twice a week to do whatever I want, which--let's face it--is usually running errands or cleaning, but eventually I hope to be able to just be a slug during that time.

Katherine has been in Joy School for two weeks and is having the time of her life. She has her own backpack and a school box with crayons and scissors. She also gets to paint, sing and play with other kids. She is on Cloud 9 and it couldn't have happened to a nicer girl.

Bupp!

My son enjoys a good joke. Considering that he was mercilessly teased from the moment he joined the family, this is hardly surprising. What is surprising is that he responded in kind at such an early age. Logan told me his first joke when he was ten months old. He was sitting on my lap, being all cute and snuggly, when he reached for my finger. The joke goes something like this:

"Hey Mom! Gimme your finger for a minute! Watch me jam it into my mouth, chew on it and drool on it. Hahahahahaha!!!! Get it? I chewed your finger, Mom! It's funny!"

Since then, he has become a connoisseur of fine humor ranging from throwing food, pacifiers and toys on the floor (and laughing hysterically when Mommy picks said thing up for the 9000th time) to experimentally poking the cat to get the best noises. But his favorite joke is also his first word. His first word is "Bupp!" The exclamation point is important because he never just says "Bupp," or "Bupp...." It's "Bupp!" or he doesn't say it at all. Anyway...

"Bupp!" is the word Logan says when he honks somebody's nose or lips or ears, or whatever protruding body part he can reach. And he does this A LOT. It makes it worse that this kid turns into a 12-legged octopus (would that make him a dodecapus?) when it's time to clip those scratchy little fingernails. I can get about two nails clipped before I give up. That means that there are often long, pointy baby nails on and inside my nose when he decides to be silly.

So if you see me with long scratches on my face, it wasn't the cat or some kind of shaving accident. It was just Logan telling jokes.

Only at Our House

Scene: Yesterday afternoon, Mommy and Katherine sitting in the living room, putting a puzzle together. Enter Daddy with a bowl of ice cream.
Katherine: (spying the bowl). Ooooh!!! Olives!!

Katherine: (upon reaching the bowl) Oh, never mind. It's just ice cream.

Monkey See Monkey Do

Mommies Don't Get Sick Days

I am feeling yucky today. I have a cold, which I think makes either number 3 or 4 since moving and I am really really tired of feeling crummy. If I was child-less and still working, I'd muscle through it and go to work, armed with Kleenexes and cough drops, then collapse on the couch when I got home and have my husband spoon-feed me chicken soup. Or, if I was really sick, I'd just take a sick day and sleep all day. But I have kids and it doesn't work like that.

Rule Number 3 of the "Mommy Handbook" says that mommies don't get sick days (Rules 1 and 2 are, "You will be barfed, sneezed, bled, drooled and coughed on. Get used to it," and "Mommies are not guaranteed uninterrupted sleep," respectively). And while I read the "Mommy Handbook" before embarking on motherhood, that doesn't mean I don't get to complain about the rules. Yes, being sick is one of the worst things about motherhood, except potty-training. Potty training is definitely the worst thing I've had to do so far, but being sick is up there too.

If my children were empathetic, being sick wouldn't be so bad, but they're not. Logan doesn't care that I feel gross. He still wants to eat weird stuff off the floor and whack his head on things. In fact it seems that he's the opposite of empathetic because he gets himself into more trouble when I'm sick. Katherine, on the other hand, understands that I'm not feeling my finest and we're not going to Disneyland or the zoo or Paris (thank you Fancy Nancy for that one) today. She also knows not to bother me unless it's important, but you would be surprised to learn what sorts of things she considers "important." There have been multiple emergency sash retyings on her dress-up dress, as well as narrowly averted Barbie wardrobe disasters.

My one shining star in this is my sweet husband who tries his very best to alleviate my suffering. He makes dinner, herds the children and puts them to bed. But unfortunately he's only around for about 2 1/2 of our kids' waking hours.

But perhaps the worst part of all is knowing that despite my nearly constant hand-washing, elbow-sneezing and Lysol-spraying, everyone else is going to get this thing. And then, I will be taking care of sick people, which runs me back into Rules 1 and 2 in the "Mommy Handbook."

In the Cirrrrrrrrrcllllllllllllllle, the ciiiirrrlllllle of liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiife!

The Family Curse

No, it's not the one that all mothers curse their kids with, to have a child just like them, although my mom cursed me with that one years ago. She must not be much of a voodoo priestess, because neither of my kids are at all like me *wink.* No, what I am referring to is the post-baby weight-gain curse brought to you by my Norwegian mountain-climber-goat-herder heritage on Mom's side. This curse makes you gain weight after you have a baby, not lose it. It's VERY annoying. My mountain-climbing-goat-herder genes think that I am climbing mountains and herding goats all day and feeding a baby so every single calorie must be conserved! On the plus side, these genes also give me great hair, perfect for braiding and coiling around my head like Heidi, so it's a two-edged sword.

After Logan was born, I lost all my baby weight very quickly. I was wearing my pre-baby clothes two weeks after he was born. But somewhere around Logan's four-month birthday, the pounds started creeping back on. I have now reached a point where I weigh what I did the day I gave birth to Logan. Now, I can't blame this entirely on genetics. I have had a fair amount of stress in the last few months and my eating/exercising schedule has suffered. But good news! All our boxes are unpacked (well, at least the stuff we need is unpacked) and we're all finally used to a new time zone and now that exercise bike of mine is in our bedroom again instead of upside-down in Katherine's room (dang movers...seriously, what is my four-year-old going to do with a stationary bike?).

So, I'm getting back on the wagon, you know or bike, and pedaling to a new, slimmer me while I watch old episodes of The Wonder Years. I am also experimenting with On-Demand yoga videos (we have cable now...yay!) because hulking a baby around all day is making my shoulders and back stiff. Unfortunately, this resulted in a wrist sprain. So, now I know I shouldn't try to do Astavakrasana the first time out.

This is an Astavakrasana. It means Eight-angle pose in Sanskrit. I'm not cool enough to do this or even pronounce it yet.

Actually, I just bent my wrist too far doing something normal. I was just a tad too enthusiastic about it. I also have a friend who is moving near me and looking for a yoga partner, so I might give up the videos and go to an actual studio.

So, we'll see if I can convince those mountain-climbing-goat-herder genes of mine to let go so I can fit into my go-to-the-library-and-supermarket jeans again.

Manners

Last night after dinner.....

Kirsten: *burp* Excuse me!

Katherine: Mom, there's no excuse for you.

I Am Invoking My First Amendment Rights

That's right.  I am talking about my right to privacy.

Since we've moved I have been feeling extremely out of the family loop.  And unless somebody wants to donate a private jet, there's not a whole lot that I can do about it.  One thing I can do though, is to remind my family to please update their blogs so I know what they are up to.  And call.  Calling is good.  Skype is better, but calling is good.  Another thing I can do is to make sure that my far-away friends and family have a way to see what we're up to.

But I have a problem.  I have this lovely blog, but it is open for the whole world to see, and the whole world has seen it.  At least, some of the whole world has seen it.  I have gotten hits from every continent, except Antarctica, but once penguins have access to the Internet, who knows?  Mostly, I think these are curious blog-hoppers, but still I don't want to share too much, and in some ways I think I already have.  So, I am doing a re-design.  This blog will be more like what I intended it to be in the first place, just me and my thoughts about motherhood with the occasional mention of my children and husband.

There will be a new blog, by invitation only, for the people who actually know me and want to know the mundane details of my life and my kids' lives...and my husband too I guess.  It will feature such exciting things as trips to the zoo and Logan's first tooth (which I'm sure is just around the corner....please please please be just around the corner!).

So, if you know me and would like an invite, you will know how to get in touch to arrange such things.

Imitation is the Sincerest Form of Flattery

I can't tell you how much that saying bugged me when I was little.  My mom would spout off this gem every time my little sister did something to imitate me, which was like, everyday.  Actually, it probably wasn't all that often, but it sure felt like it.  I think what bugged me most about that saying is that it basically said, "Deal with it.  Your sister is going to wear the same clothing as you or say what you say.  And you had better be grateful because she likes you, ok?"  What I was looking for was some age-old way of getting her to stop.  Anyway, yesterday a couple of things happened that reminded me of that saying.


Number 1:

My kids were playing with one of those stretchy, sticky toys. You know, the little plastic string with a small loop in one end and a hand on the other end that sticks to everything. Only this one had jellyfish tentacle things instead of a hand. It came out of a 25¢ dispenser at a doctor's office. Anyway....

Katherine would hand the jellyfish end to Logan and pull back on the toy until she was several feet away. Logan would let go of his end which would recoil and smack Katherine in the leg. They did this over and over and over, getting gigglier each time, until the toy broke. It was mid-stretch and the string snapped back and whacked Logan in the face, which he did not appreciate. Understandably he started to cry. Then Katherine started to cry because her beloved toy was broken.

I was hugging both of them, trying to console them and Logan started calming down. He sniffed a few times and then noticed that Katherine was still crying, so he started up again. Then Katherine started calming down and noticed that Logan was crying again and she started up again. This went back and forth for a bit before I just started laughing. Soon, all three of us were cackling.



Number 2:

I was in the kitchen, and Katherine came in with her baby doll wrapped in a dish towel.  I asked her what she was doing and she said she was rocking her baby to sleep and that I needed to be quiet (she whispered, "be quiet").  So, I quietly asked what her baby's name was.  She told me it was Katherine.  I said that it was funny that she and her baby had the same name.  She said, "Oh no, Mom.  I'm not Katherine.  I'm Kirsten the Mommy."   D'aaawwwwww!!!!  I don't mind being imitated so much anymore.

Mama's Boy

Logan was born 4 weeks early.  When I was 32 weeks pregnant (2 months-ish before my due date), I stopped growing.  My pregnant belly just didn't get any pregnant-er.  My doctor thought maybe I was having an off appointment, but put a note in my file to double check the baby's growth the next time around.  My 34-week appointment came and still my belly was the same size.  My doctor decided that something was not right and had me go in for non-stress tests twice a week and ultrasounds every other week to see what was going on.  The first non-stress tests showed a wiggly, happy, normal baby and the ultrasound showed a healthy, although rather skinny baby.

This was 7 days before Logan was born

 Then at my next ultrasound and non-stress test appointment, the nurse noticed that Logan's heart rate was dropping at odd intervals.  She thought it might be that because it was around lunchtime that I was hungry and so was baby and his little baby blood-sugar was low.  They gave me juice and that seemed to help.  Then at my ultrasound the technician noticed that Logan had not gained any weight at all and worse yet, my amniotic fluid was too low.  Logan was starting to starve.  He was ingesting the fluid, but not peeing it out like he was supposed to.  The heart rate drop was caused my him leaning on his umbilical cord and because there was no spare fluid to cushion things, he was starting suffocate himself.  The consensus was that my placenta was just not doing its job anymore, so Logan had to be born.  They sent me downstairs to Labor and Delivery for a C-Section that afternoon.

Notice the lack of feeding tube...little stinker :)

When Logan was born, he was 4 pounds 11 ounces, several ounces smaller than his NICU neighbors, a pair of twins born at 34 weeks.  The doctors there assured me that he was a healthy little guy and just needed to learn to regulate his body temperature and wake up enough to eat his own food.  He was a trouble-maker in the NICU because he liked to pull out his feeding tube and kick off his blood pressure monitor.  Eight days after he was born, Logan came home.

They warned me that because he was born early and apparently hadn't been growing that he might be a little slow developmentally, but not to worry unless he was still behind by his 2nd birthday. 

Logan has been a little on the slow side.  He rolled over for the first time at 4 1/2 months and never really did roll the other way.  Once he rolled over a few times, he just didn't do it any more.  I imagined him thinking to himself, "Okay, that was rolling over.  I don't get what the big deal is.  It's not that great, but laying here on the floor and kicking my legs, that's pretty fun.  So, I think I'll just stick to that."

 Logan was well over 7 months when he finally sat up on his own. 

So, I was really surprised when he waved to himself in the mirror last week. 

I was even more surprised when he called me, "Mamamammm" today when I came into the living room. 

It's his first word and he hasn't really babbled much.  The most surprising thing is that he said his first word before Katherine did (She said her first word at 9 1/2 months.  It was "Nggkee'eee" which translates to "kitty").  I have those Mom-worries that Logan would fall behind his peers because of his rough start in life, but to beat out his sister--who had the benefit of a fully-functional placenta and a full nine months to bake in the oven--is reassuring.  So, I have to admit that my husband is right and Logan is totally fine and I don't need to worry.

But I think the best part of this whole thing is that I, ME, Mama, was his first word and not that stupid cat.  In your face, Lily!  Hah!

Twelve Days of Christmas Katherine-Style

Even though Christmas is way way over, I had to share this gem.

And in case you don't get the subtle references, here's some help.



You can skip to the last minute or so on this one.

Playing Catch-up

We've been in our new (and.....oh let's say "Quirky") apartment for about a month and a half.  I have successfully survived Thanksgiving, Christmas and unpacking.  So, now it's time to do all the other stuff I've been meaning to do, including update ye olde bloge.

If you're not into looking at pictures of other people's kids who are probably not as awesome as they claim they are, you can go ahead and skip pretty much this whole thing (except this time, you'd be wrong because MY children are at least twice as awesome as I let on).


Back before we moved we took a little trip to visit some of Casey's family.  We ended the weekend with a birthday gathering (I say gathering because there were no hats....It's not a party unless there are hats.  There are also no other sugared-up four year-olds, which is also a requirement.)  at Great Grandma's house for Miss Katherine who is now a whopping four years old!  Here we have a selection of photos from that momentous occasion. 
 

 The drive was a little long for Katherine.   That wood thing is an extremely beautiful chess board Casey's brother gave him, but you're looking at the bottom.

I don't want to bore you with all the presents that she got, so I'm just putting in the important ones:  The Grandma presents!  Casey's Mom gave Katherine the embroidered pillow which Katherine now sleeps with every night.

 My mom gave Katherine this one.  Strawberry Shortcake is now best friends with tiny Cinderella and tiny Sleeping Beauty.

Birthday girl decided I wasn't taking enough pictures, I guess, so she took this one of me.

 And this one....

and this lovely self-portrait.

Oh, and this is a still life of Great Grandma's ceiling.

Casey's mom and dad were here, but they had to leave early, so they missed out on the whole family picture.  And I am a complete moron because I didn't take any photos of them while we were there.  I'm just so used to seeing them whenever we want that I didn't even think to take pictures *Smacks forehead*  So, whenever it is that we save up the money to fly all of us out there, we will be taking photos......lots of them.

....

Next up, Logan's first "real" food.  It's not exactly real, since no self-respecting grown-up would eat that slop, but it's a step in the right direction.  Casey said feeding Logan that first time was like applying joint compound to our recently-repaired wall.  Same shlocky texture, same procedure: apply compound/cereal, wipe away excess, apply compound/cereal, wipe.....

....

And now I present you with Halloween!  Casey had left for his new job by this point, so the kids and I had Halloween by ourselves.  Too bad, because I FINALLY convinced Casey to dress up this year.  He was going to be his evil twin.  Anyway.....

 Presenting Her Majesty of the Realm of the Living Room, Princess Katherine Sleeping Beauty!  She will be signing autographs in the kitchen following the evening's celebrations.

And here we have Logey the caterpillar.  Don't let his sedentary appearance throw you.  This guy can eat through a one piece of chocolate cake, one ice-cream cone, one pickle, one slice of Swiss cheese, one slice of salami, one lollipop, one piece of cherry pie, one sausage, one cupcake, and one slice of watermelon.

 

Here we are at the church's Halloween party.  That's my lame attempt at a butterfly costume.  Butterfly, caterpillar, get it?  I know!  I'm so totally clever, right?

And that brings us up to the end of October.  Tune in next time for whatever it is that I feel like posting.