Mom's great escape (for the day)

A mom friend and I escaped to Boston for the day a few weekends ago and spent the day... well, I'm almost embarrassed to say. Don't get me wrong, it was glorious and relaxing and totally fun. But in terms of "crazy" and "exciting," I'm not sure you childless folks are going to appreciate this tale (those of you with kids, on the other hand, will understand exactly where I'm coming from).

To sum up the day, we walked around, we talked, we shopped, we ate pastries for lunch (without having to share!), we got fitted for bras, we talked, we had ice cream even after having pastries for lunch and we met another friend for a sinfully caloric dinner and great conversation.

At one point during the day, we found ourselves sitting by a pond in the Public Gardens just... not doing much at all. We admired a bride and groom being photographed, we talked, we sat silently, we people watched, and we wondered how to explain our day to our families. I knew if I described it like the paragraph above, the Pretend Husband wouldn't get it (in fact, I tried that paragraph and his response was, "but you could have done that in the next town over. You didn't have to go all the way to Boston to do that!")

We decided that the day wasn't as much about what we had done, but what we had not done. We hadn't had someone tugging at our clothes at any point during the day, we hadn't been interrupted in our conversation even once, we hadn't had to stop a little human from falling or diving headfirst into the pond. We hadn't had to answer the question, "why?" six times in a row. We hadn't had to keep to a schedule so no one would miss their nap and be incredibly cranky for the rest of the day. We hadn't had to make decisions based on anyone else's wants or needs. And it was wonderful.

While I did miss my family that day, it was exactly what I needed. A beautiful day with a good friend, good conversation, great pastries and not doing much of anything. It was perfect.

Thinking about moving? Don't do it! (A true life story from someone who did- and lived to tell the tale)

Ok, if you have to move because a job takes you elsewhere or your house burns down, then I guess you can go ahead and do it. But, if you have any choice in the matter, I am the living, breathing warning about how much it sucks and how it should be avoided if you can help it.

Can you guess what we did this summer? We did it. We moved. And, while we have owned our new house for three months now, our dining room and garage are still filled with boxes waiting to be unpacked and organized and, if I'm being honest with myself, will probably remained filled for a good, long time.

You see, moving is so much more than the day you actually transport your stuff from one place to another. It encompasses weeks and months of showings (I cleaned my house 25 times for 30 groups of people to come through- and I'm still unsure how I kept my kids and dogs from messing it up the moment I got it clean... I think I ran out the door with them and didn't return home until the showing was over).

Then there is the packing, the negotiations when you finally get an interested buyer, the fighting with the parent who sold you the house to finally get the last of their stuff out of your basement six years after you moved in (is that just me?), the moving day itself, the praying the deal doesn't fall through at the last minute, the negotiations on the house you're buying and the unpacking and organizing at the other end. I lived in a perpetual state of stress for more than seven months- realizing just how stressed out I was only after it was over and I could breathe- and sleep!- normally again.

And the funny (as in ironic, not ha ha) part is, the Pretend Husband and I are still not entirely clear WHY we moved. We gave various (truthful) answers to different people: "we need a layout that works better for us," "we ran out of projects at this house and are ready for something new" or "our lives weren't exciting enough before, so we thought we'd mix things up." It was a struggle because we didn't HAVE to move; we WANTED to. We had a perfectly good house that we had worked really hard to make our own. And it had plenty of room for us and our friends and family. But we both felt like it was time- and also had the thought that, if we didn't do it now, it would probably never happen once our boys were in school.

So, we did it. And now it's all over except the unpacking. And, while the PH and I tend to disagree (or at least debate) about EVERYTHING (paint colors, what to have for dinner, which house to buy, what gift to leave for the buyers, what show to watch together), we are in complete agreement about one important thing: we will not be moving again for a very, very long time.

My kid rocks at puking

Let's label this as yet another thing I never thought I would be talking about-- let alone bragging about-- before I had kids. But I am so proud of FunnyKid and his new puking skills that I had to share (it's the little things in life, you know?)

Up until this past weekend, FunnyKid had thrown up on two separate occasions. Both times, he was asleep in his bed when he threw up pretty much all over his face and hair, woke up crying and had to be stripped and rushed into the shower, where one parent got him clean while the other one stripped and remade the bed.

I felt awful for FunnyKid when this happened because the only thing worse than being sick is being pulled out of your bed, stripped of your clothes and being thrown into a shower when you were blissfully asleep just moments before. The poor kid would huddle under the water crying and begging to go back to bed while we explained why he was showering (multiple times in one night) and rushed to get him clean.

But that changed this weekend. We were staying at my dad's house for one night (the one fateful night). FunnyKid, who had exhibited no symptoms of not feeling well and had been running around just minutes before, was brushing his teeth when he suddenly started crying, asked for water and then began vomiting in the hallway outside the bathroom.

When he was done, he calmly asked to take a shower (he didn't need one as he had neatly avoided getting anything on himself, but I suspect he now associates puking with a shower afterward). After a nice, hot shower, we got FunnyKid into bed and prayed he wouldn't throw up all over a bed that doesn't belong to us, a rug that isn't ours and some various antiques and other nice stuff in the room he was staying in.

About half an hour later, FunnyKid called me upstairs and in a fairly calm manner told me he had to throw up again. I rushed him into the bathroom and held him while he threw up into the toilet like a seasoned pro. I denied him a shower after that round and he went back to bed and fell asleep.

Around 11:30, as the Pretend Husband and I were falling asleep, we heard FunnyKid call for us again. I met him in the hallway and again swooped him into the bathroom as he told me he had to throw up again. Another round of puking in the toilet and this time he got the shower he requested because if that's all your poor, sick kid wants, that's what he gets.

I feel like FunnyKid is growing and maturing in so many ways, and waking up to puke is one of them. Not the biggest deal, of course, but it makes for a happy mama who doesn't have to remake a bed for the fourth time and explain to a kid why he's showering at midnight.

Where does he get this stuff?

One of the side effects of having FunnyKid in preschool is him hearing and seeing things that I don't know about. At least, that's where I'm assuming he's gotten some of his expressions lately.

Today, he was holding FunnyBoy back from climbing up into our bay window and when I told FunnyKid to let go of his brother, he said, "there's broken glass up there!" There is obviously no broken glass laying around in my house, and I still haven't figured out where he heard it.

One of my favorites-- and another one that came out of nowhere-- is FunnyKid saying, "Me got it" when we tell him to do something. He even once busted out with, "Me on it." And he has learned how to shorten his dad's lectures about why he needs to brush his teeth before bed with, "Me know, Daddy."

As with most kids his age (3), FunnyKid is constantly asking, "why?" I try to answer him the best I can, but it does get old when I have to begin explaining things down to their most basic levels. One of the best calls I ever made as a parent was to teach FunnyKid to only ask "why" three or four times. There is nothing more satisfying than the seemingly endless string of "why's" finally wrapping up with him saying, "That makes sense, Mom."

And finally, FunnyBoy (who is always with me so I really have no idea where he got it) started getting in our faces, opening his mouth wide and roaring like a lion today. It is ridiculously cute and he will sometimes do it on command. It seems someone is following in his brother's footsteps in always keeping me on my toes and thoroughly entertained.

I have seen way too many single digit AM hours this week

While I love that FunnyKid is in preschool, I don't love the cold he likely brought home from it. The sniffling and coughing is running rampant in our family-- and creating havoc during the night as various family members are woken by their own coughing or that of someone else.

We have had a few nights this week where the dogs are the only ones asleep at 2 a.m. It is no fun, especially for the adults who then spend the day dealing with cranky clients or cranky kids while running on not enough sleep and only the energy we get from mainlining cups of coffee.

The other night, the Pretend Husband and I did our best to get to bed early to try to make up for a lack of sleep the night before. We dozed off... only to be awoken an hour later by an angry FunnyBoy, who is not only under the weather, but also teething (and angry about the whole thing). I fed FunnyBoy and had to make a couple of attempts at putting him down in his crib before he settled down and fell asleep.

Back to bed for me... for another two hours before FunnyKid began coughing and woke himself up. FunnyKid was not a happy camper and not only refused medicine and water to try to alleviate the coughing, but also refused to get back into bed or do anything other than yell at me. When trying to calm him, I felt something on the back of his head and discovered a tick. Which is how the PH and I ended up wrestling FunnyKid while he yelled "I no like this game!" and FunnyBoy woke up in the next room and started doing some yelling himself.

We got the tick off of FunnyKid and tucked him back into bed. And then I went to feed FunnyBoy again while my hero, the PH, not only read "The Teapot Book" to FunnyKid, but actually SANG it at FunnyKid's request. I don't think I would have been so accommodating at 2:30 in the morning.

Finally tucking ourselves back into bed after getting both boys to sleep, the PH and I took turns praying no one would wake up before it was at least light outside. God was on our side and no one made a peep until after 7:30, which at least gave us more sleep than we had had the night before.

Luckily, things change quickly with kids and we seem to be at the end of the illlness. Our fingers are crossed that everyone continues to heal and we can all get some sleep tonight.

The one where I start blogging again...

Oh hi, world.

Remember me? Probably not. But now that my daughter has gone off to college, I figured I'd regale you with years' old stories about her.

OK. Maybe not college.  But she is going to be 3 in three weeks, and I'm FREAKING THE HECK OUT.

I have no idea how that happened. But there are great things about being nearly 3.

1) Diapers and pull-ups are back ups. She's pretty fully potty trained now, so my days of back of the car diaper changes and those moments of sheer panic when I can't find the wipes are about over.
2) I can take her to the movies.
3) She talks. We have full on conversations. And they go something like this:

"Mommy, where are my glass slippers?"
I look around. There are sneakers, crocs, and glitter shoes.  I figured this was a gimme.
"Here you go," I said, handing her the glitter shoes.
"THOSE ARE NOT MY GLASS SLIPPERS, MOMMY!"
OK. So I try the crocs.
"Those are your glass slippers, Mommy-Cinderella. Put them on!"
I looked at the size 8 (toddler) stride rites. Probably not going to fit.
"I think these are too small."
Moment of reflection....
"They are too small mommy. You're the step sister."

This and that (Preschool Edition)

Having a 3 year old (FunnyKid) and a 9 month old (FunnyBoy) means naptime battles, less sleep than I ever thought I'd be able to survive on and some of the funniest moments. These boys make me laugh every day and while being a full-time parent is the hardest job I'll ever have, I'm so, so lucky to be able to do it.

FunnyKid goes to preschool now, is into playing any sport we buy equipment for and is talking like a champ. The other day, we were trying to find a set of blocks and had found all but one. "Oh, there it is," I said, as I spotted the last block under a dresser. FunnyKid replied, "You have good eyes, Mom." (I say that to him a lot and it was funny to learn that he picked up on one of my expressions. And then scary to think about just how much I need to watch what I say around him...)

While FunnyBoy has his moments of screaming displeasure (usually in the middle of the night), he is generally the happiest kid I've ever met. Strangers in stores comment all the time about his huge jack o'lantern smile (he has two teeth on the bottom and three on the top) and his bright blue eyes. A couple of people have dubbed him with the nickname "Blueberry Eyes" for how blue they are (FunnyKid can never remember the name and calls his brother "Strawberry Eyes.")

FunnyKid is mildly obsessed with ponytails. Before his last haircut, he sometimes asked me to make one on top of his head. When I have one in my hair, he will ask me to turn around so he can see my "poy-tail." Then he says, "I kiss it, Mom?" and gives my ponytail a smooch. Weird, but sweet.

FunnyKid is quite the backseat driver. I get all sorts of orders yelled at me, everything from "Green light, go!" (I've learned not to hit the gas when I hear that since it's not always accurate and never takes the fact that there's traffic in front of us into account) to "Slow down, Mom, that's my house." In fact, the kiddo has gotten kind of possessive lately. We recently got a new car that I drive and the Pretend Husband drives the vehicle I previously had. FunnyKid describes it as "Daddy drive my cah. You drive red cah."

While playing in the driveway a few weeks ago, we heard a tapping noise and discovered a woodpecker high up in a nearby tree. FunnyKid had noticed the noise so I was trying to explain to him what a woodpecker is and what it does. While searching the tree to try to spot what was making the noise, FunnyKid suddenly yelled, "that's a big pecker!" This is me praying he doesn't try to recount the story at school.

Babies are magnets for crazy people

One Sunday, I took FunnyBoy for a drive in a desperate attempt to get him to nap. While he didn't fall asleep, he did calm down and we decided to do some shoe shopping. FunnyBoy loved shopping so much, he started cooing in his stroller as I pushed him around the store (or, at least, I like to think it was because he loved it so much). And his cooing attracted the attention of a seemingly-normal woman walking by.

She started off asking if she could look at FunnyBoy and was very nice about not touching him. Then she asked me his name (still very normal). Then she asked if he was my first and when I told her he is my second, she asked if I had a boy or girl at home. When I said "boy," that's when things started to get weird.

"Two boys. You keep working on that girl!" (I didn't respond and, although the comment kind of rubbed me the wrong way by how it implied that my beautiful boys weren't enough, my weirdo radar just barely went off).

Then, this. "Let me know when you need me to babysit!"

Ohhhhhhhh, yeahhhhhhh. Sure, stranger. I will be calling you annnnnnyyyyy day now. And then FunnyBoy and I made a hasty exit from the store before Ms. Too Close For Comfort decided we needed her to come home with us.

Not my brightest parenting moment

Ah, toddlers. Who doesn't have the fondest of memories about the temper tantrums, the bedtime battles, the time your kid locked himself in the vault at city hall. Wait, what? Oh yeah, it happened.

On this fateful day, I had both boys with me as I ran into city hall for one quick thing.  As I looked at a computer, FunnyKid ran down a long (fun-looking) ramp next to me that went into the big vault full of city records. Then he ran back up and we headed to the desk to speak to an employee.

As I began speaking to the woman and FunnyBoy began fussing, FunnyKid (the 2.5 year old) saw his opportunity and took off to run back down the ramp into the vault. I picked up the baby carrier and was not too far behind him, telling him to turn around and come back. As I got to the bottom of the ramp, FunnyKid gave me a sly grin... and knocked closed a glass door at the entrance to the vault (a door with no purpose I could figure out since the vault also had one of those huge metal vault doors).

Seeing no knob on the outside of the glass door (just a keyhole), I immediately turned around and went back  to the employee I had been speaking with. "I'm really sorry, but my son just locked himself in the vault. Could you please get the key for the glass door?"

"Uh, I don't think we have a key for that door," the woman replied.

That's when I began to panic. Running back to the door, I smiled and urged FunnyKid to turn the locking mechanism on his side of the glass. Having fun playing our game, the poor kid tried to turn the lock, but wasn't strong enough. Standing there with a toy train in either hand, he watched as two different employees with two different keys each arrived and failed to unlock the door.

That's when a woman in a really nice outfit came rushing down and decided she was going to try to slide under the door (oh yeah, I forgot to mention that the glass door didn't go all the way to the top or the bottom of the door frame, making it even more useless and more confusing about what it was even there for). Despite the panic rising in my chest, that part was kind of funny because the poor, professionally-dressed woman had no chance of fitting through the couple of inches of space beneath the door, but she pressed herself to the floor and tried.

The ending of this story is a little anti-climatic: no firefighters rushing through the door for a dramatic rescue, no having to tell FunnyKid to go hide in the corner while a police officer shot through the door. Nope. Instead, we got FunnyKid to lay down on his side of the door and I reached under and slid him out.

Then we threw some more apologies around and ran out the door while the employees were making phone calls to see if anyone in city hall had a key to the door. In the aftermath, I felt ashamed that FunnyKid was able to get that far away from me and cause some mischief, but I also started to get kind of angry that a city office didn't have a key to the mystery door in its vault. I can think of a couple of (unlikely) scenarios in which that door could swing closed and need to be reopened. In any case, it's a funnier story than the battle FunnyKid and I fought over naptime this afternoon, and if I have to be embarrassed or admit some parenting failures, at least I want a funny story out of it.

Life with two

I read somewhere that the transition from one to two kids is harder than the transition from none to one. Almost eight weeks into our adventure as the parents of two boys, I'm going to agree. While there was a steep learning curve as we figured out what to do with a tiny FunnyKid when he was an infant, the challenges are even greater when we're not only trying to keep FunnyKid happy and healthy, but sustaining a (more helpless) baby as well.

Oh, how life has changed for us. For one thing, I'm spending a lot less money. I haven't taken both boys out very frequently because of flu season and my inability to keep them both entertained and on track in stores. One of my first trips out with both of them was to good ol' Target. I had my list and I had my game plan (FunnyBoy in a wrap on my chest, FunnyKid in the cart). It all went according to plan until I got about ten steps into the store and spied a cute dress under a 70 percent off clearance sign. I hesitated for a second before realizing who I was with and quickly walking past. Browsing, my friends, is a thing of the past.

Another challenge has been FunnyBoy's digestive issues. After too many weeks of hearing him scream for an hour or two every night, we have him on medication. In addition, his doctor told me to drop all soy and dairy from my diet. After extensive research, I can tell you that soy and/or dairy is in EVERYTHING. I spent an hour at the grocery story yesterday reading labels, bought six things (soy free, dairy free butter? sounds delicious!) and spent $20. This couponing, grocery budgeting mama is dying as she writes that sentence. On the bright side, I learned I like almond milk and will probably end up shedding some more pregnancy weight as I'm forced to cut back on most things I ordinarily snack on. On the other hand, I will understand why my friends don't want to spend time with me for awhile because how fun will I be when I can't eat anything other than a handful of peanuts and some fruit?

It probably goes without saying that, as hard as it has been to give up so many foods, it's so worth it to make sure FunnyBoy isn't in pain every night. Overall, he's a sweet kiddo with the biggest smile ever-- well worth not having chocolate, ice cream or a lot of other things for awhile. And I'm getting better at being the mom of two kids. I took them out for a walk in the double stroller the other day and we have already conquered the library. Next up is a restaurant. Wish me luck...

How I Spent My Christmas Vacation...

As December quickly flashed by and we got closer and closer to Christmas Day (my due date), I began praying that the baby would not decide to make an appearance on Christmas. I didn't want to spend Christmas in the hospital and I also didn't want the poor kid to have a Christmas birthday. A few days before or after-- great. But as someone with a birthday three weeks before Christmas who *still* sometimes got shafted on gifts, I had some compassion for having a birthday right on the holiday itself.

As Christmas approached and nothing seemed to be happening, I relaxed a little bit and started to plan for having a late baby. The Pretend Husband and I started discussing whether we would want an induction or membran stripping, and I began hoping to go into labor on my own sometime in the week between Christmas and New Year's.

Christmas Day came and it was perfect. We had decided to keep the holiday simple, not knowing if it would even happen. We set out a bunch of food, told family when we would be home and sat back to wait for them to visit. FunnyKid alternated between riding his new backhoe, jumping on his new trampoline and snuggling up with grandparents. I alternated between talking and eating, mostly while cuddled up on the couch.

Everyone left in the evening and within two hours, I started having some cramping and then contractions, which were not at all regular (and had started and stopped before, so I didn't get too excited about them). That evening, I had the PH take a photo of me at 40 weeks pregnant, not knowing how little time I had left.

We put FunnyKid to bed and the PH and I watched some television while I timed the contractions, which were anywhere from 12 to 20 minutes apart. As we got into bed around 10:30, my water broke. And that's when things got real. The PH (who had a really bad cold) tried to grab a little sleep while I went downstairs to pace and time contractions, which got stronger and closer together but since I was still able to walk and talk through them, I figured I was still pretty early in the process.

As the contractions got down to 3-5 minutes apart, I jumped in the shower and the PH started preparing for a trip to the hospital while family members started to make their way over to our house to stay with FunnyKid. After getting dressed, I was fine with chatting with my dad in between contractions, but the PH started to get nervous ("I am not delivering this baby myself!") and started to rush me out the door.

We got to the hospital and, although I was having really, really painful back labor, everything was still manageable. In fact, the nurse told us later that she almost didn't admit us because I didn't seem like I was very far along. In fact, I was already 7 centimeters dilated when they checked me and that's when things started moving fast.

There was some really loud moaning (me) and some slightly scared looks (the PH) and some casualness from the midwife as the told the nurse to call my doctor, but tell her there was no need to rush to the hospital. As she was saying that, I could feel the baby moving down and started having the urge to push, but who was I to argue with the expert?

Which is how it came to be that I gave birth 15 minutes later without a doctor in the room. The baby basically flew out and was placed on my chest and I said, "it's a boy?" Then I said, "Brothers!" A little FunnyBoy to torture and tease and love and admire my FunnyKid, who I'm sure will do the same in return.

And so, three hours after Christmas Day had ended, that's how our FunnyBoy, Finnegan (we'll call him Finn), came into this world, in his own time in his own way and with a full set of lungs that reminds us he's here on a daily (and nightly) basis.

I kept a straight face, but I was laughing inside

Man, if it weren't for rude and/or dumb people, I wouldn't have anything to post about these days. Today, I stopped at the store with FunnyKid and was standing with the rear door of the car open so I could unbuckle him from his seat. As I was trying to get him out, a woman started to pull into the spot I (and the car door) was in. And even with me and part of my car in front of her, she didn't stop. She just kept slowly pulling at me.

I was kind of incredulous because there was an open spot RIGHT NEXT to the one she just had to pull into, but no, she wasn't going to have to walk any further than she had to, and she kept coming at me. I finally squished my nine-months-pregnant body as far into my backseat as I could and pulled the door against my back so she could park (which ended up being half in the spot and half in the empty spot next to it-- how's that for irony?).

As I did this, I glanced up just in time to watch her impatiently hit the gas a little... and drive straight into the little concrete bar on the ground that keeps a car from plowing into the building. She wasn't going fast enough to cause whiplash or anything, but I still found it to be poetic justice for being such a bee-yotch (seriously, parking one spot over would have added, what? An extra five feet to your journey?)

And another irony? This morning, I was the one in the car as a woman had the side door of her van open to get a bunch of boxes out at the post office (in this case, it really was the only spot that was open). And I stopped and waited patiently for her to stack all the boxes in her arms, get her door closed and move out of the way. If only everyone was as awesome as me... :)

The home stretch... if I can just keep from killing someone before the baby arrives

With less than three weeks until my due date (FYI: my due date is Christmas Day so you might want to get that holiday shopping done-- and quick), I'm used to some second looks and questions about when I'm due, what I'm having, etc. And some comments about how hard it's going to be to have a toddler and a newborn (yes, I'm aware...)

For the most part, people have been nice. Today, FunnyKid and I went into a coffee shop and immediately attracted the attention of a man sitting at a nearby table wearing a "Grandpa" T-shirt. He had really nice things to say about FunnyKid's behavior and asked a bunch of questions about my pregnancy. He wished me luck and that was that.

Except our conversation must have somehow attracted one of the workers, who bolted out of a back room and loudly asked "do you have one baby in there or two?" Stunned, I answered, "just one" and she replied, "Sorry. I had to ask."

Um, listen, bee-yotch, you did not HAVE to ask and while I have a very obvious belly (again, due to being two and a half weeks from my due date), I am nowhere near looking like I'm hauling around twins. I know this because I immediately started texting the Pretend Husband and a bunch of my friends to tell them what happened and they assured me I look like a normal pregnant woman. Then they gave me a bunch of comebacks I wished I had thought of, such as "What are you talking about? I'm not pregnant" and "Enough about me. When are YOU due?"

I wasn't prepared for someone to be so rude to be today, but I'm ready now. Just let someone try to imply I'm fat again and I will be using every zinger my friends and family gave me. You just don't mess with a pregnant woman.

Denying my kid chocolate is where I draw the line....

Last year, our town postponed Halloween amid the ruins that came about from the freak October nor'easter. It was originally postponed until a few days later then again postponed and turned into a "trunk or treat" where cars parked in the high school parking lot and the kids went from car to car to collect candy. Personally, I think that's kind of lame, but I went along with it because it made sense to not have kids trick-or-treating in neighborhoods that still didn't have power or were still unsafe because of the trees that were knocked down.

But this year? This year, I was a rebel. When the town decided to postpone Halloween to Saturday, I fought back. I refused to be held down by the restrictions of society. I looked "the man" in the eye and said, "no!" And then we broke all the rules and went trick-or-treating anyway.

Ok, I'm sure many of you have taken up pet causes that are a lot more worthy than Halloween, but I was looking forward to giving FunnyKid the experience and Saturday doesn't work for us. And our neighborhood has power and no downed trees so no one's safety was at risk.

We had friends over to go with us and I was bound and determined to give the kids a Halloween. My back-up plans included taking them over the town line to a neighborhood with an officially-sanctioned Halloween and having the kids parade around our house and collect candy from adults in different rooms.

Luckily, our neighborhood is full of rebels just like us and they turned their lights on. So we took our St. Bernard, our Tinkerbell(s) and our Peter Pan to about seven houses, made them walk the darkened streets and stuffed winter coats under their costumes-- just how Halloween is meant to be.

And now that everyone is begging for candy for breakfast, my work here is done. But if anyone tries to mess with Thanksgiving, I can promise I'll be leading the charge to keep the government out of our good time.

Stupid nature...

We live in a fairly rural area. Rural enough that I routinely swerve to avoid deer, have seen a bear while out for a walk, had a bobcat sun itself in our backyard and had a neighbor spot a moose (a moose!) near our house just last week. I can handle all of that and even think it's very cool (I would love to see a moose in person).

But the smaller stuff gets me. And it's not just the squirrel that ran the wrong way last week and committed suicide under my car tire. Yesterday, I opened the door to let the dogs out into the backyard, looked down and spotted a bird laying on the step. Quickly getting the dogs back into the house, I assessed the situation... which basically included a rundown of every male I could call to come take care of the situation and determining they were all otherwise busy (I don't know if my former neighbor still reads the blog, but I was wishing I could have called E to come take care of it for me!)

So I manned up, wrote the Pretend Husband a text telling him how lucky he is to have a pregnant wife willing to do this stuff and carefully approached the bird with my shovel extended. Oh, and I chanted, "please don't move, please don't move" to the bird the whole time (I was barely able to deal with a dead bird and may have died if it actually moved). Luckily, the bird was dead, and it stayed that way as I maneuvered it onto the shovel and headed for the woods.

I said a quick "rest in peace" and then lovingly and reverently... flung it as far into the woods as I could. Then I went back inside to text the details to the PH and promise him to give him a little more of a send-off when his time comes.

As if that wasn't enough adventure for the week, I walked into the garage this afternoon to find two birds banging against the inside of the window trying to get out. When they wouldn't take the hint of the two open garage doors, I figured I was going to have to open the window for them. I had to reach between the birds to unlock the window and then went outside to lower the top pane. One of the birds was laying against the glass while the other tried to bang its way out.

While lowering the glass, I somehow got one of the birds stuck between the panes of glass and there was no going back because it looked like I would have decapitated it if I tried. I somehow managed to slide one of the panes out of the way without killing the bird and it flew away. The other one took some prompting (i.e. banging on the glass) for it to find its escape route.

Also, I think we may have a mouse living in our family room. But I refuse to think about it (I've already let it out the door once) and it will be up to the PH to deal with whatever encounter springs up on us next. If he won't, then I'm moving to the city.

Not quite the wild weekend of my past, but I'm not complaining....

The Pretend Husband and FunnyKid left town on Friday for the weekend and my wedding rings were off within the hour as I hit the town. Ok, not as bad as it sounds-- I went for a manicure and pedicure to take my mind off how much I missed them which, of course, meant taking my rings off.

While I was kind of lost for the first hour (which included about 10 minutes of sitting in my car trying to stop crying), the rest of the weekend went by fast. And it was fun to be single and carefree again. While there was some cleaning that had to be done and I still had to work, I found some time for sleeping late and getting a massage. But even the cleaning was kind of fun because I was able to do it when I wanted, for as long as I wanted without someone grabbing onto my legs or demanding I put the "choo choo" show on the television.

It was the first time I've ever been away from FunnyKid overnight, but I figure it's good practice for when I'm in the hospital to have his brother or sister. And he had a blast with his cousins and his dad. The PH sent me tons of photos and videos so it felt like I got to be a part of the fun without any of the responsibility.

I told the PH how much I enjoyed the hour to sit and be pampered in the nail salon and he encouraged me to take a break every once in awhile and go for a pedicure or whatever. In talking to the other moms in our playgroup, I realized I am not alone in not asking for time for myself. It's a tough situation because I don't get to see the PH as often as I'd like as it is and when he is home with us, I want us to be together as a family. But I also learned the value of taking a breather from being a mom and having some time to do something for me.

I made sure I enjoyed the heck out of the weekend, not knowing when I'll get one to myself again (while the PH is a superstar dad, I don't see him taking a toddler and an infant away by himself-- and I'm not sure I would either!) But I'm going to make sure I take advantage of the PH's offer in the meantime and get some time out of the house that doesn't involve grocery shopping, playgrounds or the word "no" on repeat. Now that I've tasted it, there's no going back.

It's a library... there must be a newspaper around here somewhere for you to start checking the classfied ads

A playgroup we are a part of decided to meet at a local library this week. We rotate around to different libraries on rainy days and, although I had been to this one a handful of times before, I had never met this particular children's librarian. This particular *grouchy* children's librarian.
The library, like many others, boasts a nice play area complete with a train table, a kitchen and some other fun activities.And the kitchen includes a couple of kid-sized shopping carts which, of course, the kids are eager to push around.

One of the kids in the playgroup was pushing the cart quietly around the rest of the very large (mostly empty) children's room when the librarian looked up and said, "she needs to take that back to the play area." Then, when we stepped out into the hall outside the children's room to say hello to a friend, the librarian chased us out, told us we needed to return the same shopping cart to the play area and said, "And you need to help clean up the play area."

Trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, maybe she thought we were leaving (without our coats or bags?) and maybe she thought we were the types of parents who walk out on a mess (we're not), but I didn't appreciate the tone.

And personally, if you're not a fan of kids and how they do things (they wander, they move toys around, they are prone to leaving designated areas over and over again), perhaps you might want to find another line of work. Or just, you know, chill out a bit.

Note: I feel like I repeated the word "librarian" a lot in this post and I don't mean to mock anyone but this particular woman and her lack of flexibility, especially when working with kids. The library we went to is a great one and happens to be the same place that employs my favorite librarian (and one of my most faithful readers). We'll visit again, my friend, but maybe on that lady's day off!

Me and my first-world problems...

Let me tell you, pregnancy brain is a real thing and I am suffering from it. Mostly it includes things like walking across the house, getting there and not remembering what I was looking for. But tonight it affected the Pretend Husband.

We have a double oven in our kitchen (if you ever have the option, choose them! I thought it would be a waste, but they have come in so handy on many occasions). Anyway, the PH was on his way home from another long day at work and asked me to heat up some food for him. So, I turned on the oven, put the food in and figured it would be perfect by the time he pulled in.

The PH went to get his dinner, noticed the bottom oven was on, opened the door... and found nothing. Then he opened the top oven (the one that was off) and found his cold dinner just sitting waiting to be heated. With four months to go in this pregnancy, I fear things will only get worse...

Since it went so well the first time...

If you ask me, the quick success we had with moving FunnyKid to a big bed is just another indication of what awesome parents the Pretend Husband and I are. Well, either that or we were just lucky enough to end up with one heck of a kiddo (probably the second reason, huh?)

Well, riding that high that is our confidence in our parenting abilities, the PH and I decided to give it another whirl. All this to say that I am pregnant again! I am due on Christmas Day, expect to give birth earlier for a multitude of mostly medical reasons and we are not finding out the gender until it can be done in person.

This pregnancy has been easy in a lot of ways (no morning sickness, no swollen extremities yet, etc.) but tougher in others (mainly the fact that I have to chase after a toddler all day regardless of how sore or tired I am). But, of course, we are oh-so-grateful that I'm pregnant at all and looking forward to meeting the new kid (fingers crossed he or she is as funny as their brother!)

That "Super Nanny" technique where you put the kid back into bed again and again again? It's exhausting.

Last week, for various reasons, we decided it was time to move FunnyKid out of crib and into his new, twin bed. Not only that, but he was moving out of the nursery into a bigger bedroom (where, although he was only slightly impressed, he found a train table waiting to be played with).

After a few nights of me sitting in his room for two hours putting him back into bed again and again and again and again (and again) until he wore himself out and fell asleep, I was ready to throw in the towel. I called up a bunch of my mom friends and cried, "What are we doing wrong?" And the answers were plentiful... and not at all hopeful.

Basically, they all described the transition from crib to bed as one of the worst times of their lives and all said it would take weeks of tears (mine) and sleeplessness (mine and FunnyKid's) to get it to stick. So, we pulled ourselves up by our boot straps... and decided to take a break.

We moved the crib into the new room to give FunnyKid a chance to acclimate to the new room and decided we would try the bed again next week. The best nephews in the world (and an awesome niece) are in town this week, FunnyKid turns two later this week and we just thought it was a little too much excitement to throw a bed transition into the mix.

So, FunnyKid went to bed in his crib the first night... and the second night. And the third night, he climbed into bed, yelled for about two minutes and then went right to sleep! Worried it was a fluke, I didn't have much hope for nap time yesterday, but he did it. He actually played quietly for an hour in his room then climbed into bed, pulled a blanket up over him and conked out. And last night took a minute of yelling at the gate across his doorway before he got back into bed and promptly fell asleep.

What?!? The Pretend Husband and I keep looking at each other saying, "How did we get so lucky?" We're guessing he was just ready after having some time to acclimate to his new surroundings and the idea he can get out of bed if he wants to. It's tough to declare anything truly, finally "done" with a toddler, but I'm going to venture onto a limb here and say we (and he) did it.

I'm not just writing this all out to brag (although, if I may, my kid is pretty stinking awesome!) but to give other parents hope. While every one of your friends and family members will tell you how terrible the transition is-- and it usually is-- there are always the exceptions. And you might join us in being lucky enough to be one of them (fingers crossed).