Comparing

I've been going through my pictures from the last year, enjoying sweet memories, and being amazed at how much can change in a year.

For example, take a look at how Jack has changed, in just a year:

From this:

To this:

Even more startling is how much it changes when you add a baby!

And since we are making comparisons, let's take a look at Jack and Joey at, oh, say 10 months:

Jack in Red, Joey in Elepahnts

What a pair of cuties!

And now, for the real reason for the post, my before CrossFit and, I won't say after, because I'm not done, but my six-months-into CrossFit comparison:

I have a side note before the pictures.

I was going to link you to what I thought

was one of my many posts

on my love for

(addiction to?)

CrossFit

but it turns out that I haven't really been writing

of my undying devotion

to my life-saving gym.

I've just been thinking about it.

And well, spending all of my extra life moments there.

I wasn't joking when I said

I can currently only handle three things

and I've decided to devote myself

to my husband, my kids and exercise

for a short period.

I was sort of glad, for your sake,

that I couldn't find too many links to

me waxing poetic about

Box Jumps and Push Ups and Squats

because really that would get mighty boring.

But then again, I guess writing about that would

be preferable to writing about nothing,

which I have been doing,

since all I do is CrossFit.

Quite a conundrum.

Anyway, without further ado...

Okay, this isn't a side note, but it is a disclaimer:

I was horrified to discover this picture at Jack's birthday party, one month after having Joey. I am even more horrified that I am actually posting it on the internet. Don't be surprised if I change my mind and you come back to find this post deleted. I KNEW that I gained some weight, but I didn't ever think I looked like this:

The sting of stumbling across this photo was somewhat lessened by the fact that I had just watched this video (the first one), posted on my gym's blog. That girl is me. And that bar is really heavy. Well, heavy for me.

Jesse, the trainer at the gym was gracious enough not to include the part of the workout that still makes me look ridiculous.

A lot of days when I workout, I know I still look foolish, but I don't really care at this point. I FEEL good, even if I LOOK silly. Those workouts really have been a life-saver.

And seriously, if you want to work hard and sweat a lot and have some fun and feel so proud of yourself every day and hang out with really interesting and wonderful people, find a CrossFit gym. There is NOTHING else like it.

Okay, I'm done with my plug.

I'm off to the gym!

Firsts

As a mother of an infant and a toddler, I bet you open a post titled "Firsts" and expect to see drooly pictures of Joey's first tooth or a catalogue of Jack's first trip to the ER for stitches. While those events are, most likely, not far off, I have much more interesting firsts to present to you.

I am happy to announce that I have discovered the joy of having a favorite sweater. You may wonder how I have made it to near-thirty without the novelty of a favorite item of clothing.

I'm not sure.

A pair of Andy's sweats came close while I was pregnant, though I had to retire them when I moved in with Andy's folks because I had worn holes in places that are completely inappropriate to expose while living with your father-in-law.

So now, I have a sweater. Soft and loose, but not slouchy. The perfect shade of grey to hide baby boogers and rice cereal. Suitable for wearing to bed, to the gym, or to Target. A wonder of a top covering!

I truly don't think you are interested in my apparel

which is why

I have refrained from sharing

my clothing woes

which involve shrinking

out of everything I own.

*I know, I know,

bragging disguised as complaining,

but it IS annoying

when I have no way to replace

the baggy-saggy jeans and sloppy looking tops*

and re-discovering

how messy this phase of babyhood is.

But it provides a natural segue into my other first.

Which I think you will be much more entertained by.

My first crush on an older man!

SQUEE.

I would say that it is also my first celebrity crush, but that wouldn't be true since I had a doozy of a crush on MacGuyver when I was smaller and a second infatuation with Dean Cain as Clark Kent. But other then that, I can honestly say I have been crush-free.

I've never been much of a crusher anyway.

In fact, Andy holds the distinct privilege of wooing a girl who was resolutely single and determined to keep her heart from wistful affections that might never be returned.

That being said, it is with his full permission that I make this "firsts" disclosure.

I confessed last season that I am a little attached to reality shows. The new season of Survivor has aired two episodes.

In those two episodes I have developed a fond affection for Jimmy Johnson.

Here he is looking rugged and Survivorish.

Here he is looking debonare and flashing that melt-me smile.

Ladies, if I were to meet this man tomorrow, I'm pretty sure I would blush uncontrollably, and probably do a lot of giggling.

Oh dear.

When I announced my fluttery feelings toward this former Super Bowl coach to Andy, he laughed. Really, really hard. Almost as hard as when I accidentally swore while watching the Biggest Loser.

Did I already share that story?

It is Andy's favorite.

And yet another example of

the

[melodramatic voice here]

havoc that Reality TV

is wreaking on my inner person.

Obviously he isn't worried about me being slightly smitten with a famous face. In fact, I think he might be a little happy since it gives me a much greater tolerance for watching Sports Center.

This may just be my season for being a football fan!

CrossFit

I think we might have a problem.

Here I am, writing happily about my issues with undies, thinking that only my gal-pals bother to read what I post, only to discover today that the trainer at the new gym-thing I'm going to reads it too!

GAH!

I walked in today in my bright pink girly top and messy hair (my hair is always messy these days, but especially on work-out days because it takes SO MUCH effort to get out the door and to class on time) and he says, "Your blog is hilarious!"

GAH!

GAH!

That would be a double GAH!

It is hard enough to act normal when I'm doing things like dead-lifts and pull-ups (don't worry, I have to do the most baby version of pull-ups and can hardly manage that) - things that I've never done before and look really awkward doing, but now I have to try and act normal while doing those things AND running through my mind all the ridiculous things I've said here recently, thinking I was just chatting it up via blog with GIRLS.

Maybe I need to change the name to No Boys Allowed.

Despite the awkwardness I felt at having my trainer know that I own pink panties, I am really, really enjoying this new way of working out.

I like getting out of the house by myself. I like learning new things (and everything I've learned so far is new) and I really like waking up a little sore, knowing that I'm getting stronger and stronger.

So three cheers!

For CrossFit

For a brighter outlook

And

For the hot shower I'm about to take.

Life is looking good.

It's Mine, All (Almost) Mine

Today marked a very special occasion.

I took myself out for my first, post-labor run/jog/walk. Mostly walk.

It felt sooooo good. I did a long route, knowing that I would be slow and sort of lumber along, which I did.

But I didn't care. It just felt good to move!

It also was wonderfully soothing to my spirit to be totally alone for an hour and to have my body to myself. My dear husband kept both boys and cheerfully sent me on my way.

I'm not sure if he was so cheerful about sending me out because I had been a total brat a few hours earlier and he didn't want to deal with me, or if he was so cheerful because he knew that I would come back a much more pleasant person. Probably a healthy dose of both!

I'm celebrating the accomplishment of getting out alone as well as getting active. I definitely feel like both are worth celebrating, as they take a lot more effort that they ever had before.

In order to leave Joey home, I had to pump a bottle for Andy to have to feed him. Have you ever had to pump? If you have, you know that is one of the worlds most awful activities.

Except when it means

that you can look forward to a

full night of sleep

(minus having to get up and pump)

because your darling husband

said, "If you have bottles for me

I'll get up with Joey tonight.

I think a full nights sleep would

be good for you."

Ohh... sleep. How I have missed you!

After effusive thanks, I said,

"Wow, I must have been acting

so terribly lately for you to offer

to get up in the night!"

Yes, it is true.

I have not been my most charming self

the last few days.

So sorry honey!

Okay, another side note:

One of the things I love

the very most about Andy

is how quickly he forgives.

I am not always nice

or perfect.

Each time I mess up and have to

apologize, he treats the

offense like it is no big

deal. He forgives me

and moves on with life.

What a gift!

I learn so much from him!

DISCLAIMER: If you are a man, I suggest you stop reading at this point. Not that I anticipate any men read this, but if you are a man and you do happen to read this, come back tomorrow for a more gender-friendly post. The following uses words like "lactating" and other referrals to breast milk and breast feeding. I'm pretty sure you don't even want to know...

Only slightly more awful than pumping, was my experience with purchasing a sports bra to accommodate my lactating self.

Earlier this week I went to get a new sports bra. I took about a million, okay, it was only four - because that is all that they had in my size, options into the fitting room (as well as a million pairs of black workout pants, which is not much of an exaggeration).

I made my selection for pants and moved on to the top-wear. The first bra option was pretty good. The second was a pass. The third... oh wait. I can't try on the third one because milk is POURING from my chest.

I didn't even know that could happen! Despite having recently fed my wee child, somehow my breasts decided that in the fitting room of Sports Authority was an appropriate time to gush fluid.

I'm so sorry if that is gross to you. It IS gross. But it HAPPENED. Don't worry, I checked all the garments to make sure I hadn't sullied any of them. I quickly dressed myself and covered my spurting chest. I took my pants and the bra that was adequate, and left the store.

While it took a little extra work and embarrassment to get ready to run, it was oh so worth it! I'm sure my legs will be tired tomorrow and I'm sure that it will continue to be a struggle to make exercise work, but Oh! I'm willing to do the work!

And now, with that happy reflection, I am off to another happy part of my day, resting my head on my pillow, with the freedom to keep it there the next time Joey calls for me...

Andy, I really do love you. Thank you!

Stage an Intervention

I have already confessed that I get kind of wrapped up in the Biggest Loser. But today I had a realization.

The Biggest Loser is a gateway show for me.

As I launched into my adult life I set out with a sort of... hmm... distaste... disregard... distain... of television. I lived in three different apartments before Andy and I got married and never once did it cross my mind to sign up for cable service.

I think it started when I was still living at home and I realized that I didn't like the show Friends. To be more accurate, I realized that I DID like Friends, or at least found it entertaining, and I wished that I didn't. Something clicked in my brain that I was laughing at situations and comments that if I were to participate in, in my real life, would be appalling to me. I realized that I was finding depictions of sin and dismissal of God, entertaining.

So, I try to keep the television off as much as possible.

At least, until the Biggest Loser came along.

But that was just the beginning.

Now...

... I have a LINE UP.

People! I have a show each night that I look forward to!

GAH! THIS CAN NOT BE!

Biggest Loser.

Survivor.

American Idol. American Idol? Me? Watching American Idol? I never thought I would see the day!

Throwdown with Bobby Flay (I'm okay with this one. It is a food show. Food shows are totally allowed!)

And now, the cherry on top, is that I know what made last night's Rose Ceremony on The Bachelor "the most exciting one yet."

Sigh.

I don't know what to say for myself. The facts don't lie, and neither does my DVR.

I may not need an intervention yet, but if you come to my house and find US or People lying around, please, PLEASE do something to save me from myself.

30 Weeks

You may have noticed that I have been a bit sporadic in my blogging the last few months. Being pregnant with a toddler is tough work!

I find myself either totally dragging and fearing the addition of another little baby to our family or completely energized and eager to take on every task that comes with being a wife and mom.

Unfortunately blogging is neither a mom or a wife task so it has fallen by the wayside.

But there is good news for you... I am now 30 weeks pregnant!

Gah!

That is 30 out of 40. Just a short 10 weeks to go!

Once the baby actually arrives I can go about the business of collecting myself and figuring out what to do with a house of three men. I am quite sure that I will find it nowhere near as daunting as I keep thinking it will be.

Anyway, 30 weeks.

Yesterday I looked at my calendar and realized how close I am to the end of being pregnant. Somehow, having that nice round number in my head made me feel so secure. Instead of feeling like a giant balloon, or like I had let my pregnancy weight gain spiral out of control, I felt totally reasonable and like I looked just right for being 30 weeks pregnant.

To celebrate a day of not feeling disgusted with my shape I dressed up cute for church. I recently acquired a pair of brown, suede, slouchy boots and a pair of maternity leggings (the best $20 I've spent this pregnancy... they are SO COMFORTABLE!). I donned them last night with a sweet little dress and looked every bit the part of a maternity magazine model.

At least I thought I did.

Andy hates the boots and legging look (which I knew when I purchased them and was not expecting fireworks from him when I put them on) and told me that I looked like Robin Hood.

I told him that he would have to deal with it and that I would probably wear them every day for the next two and a half months, so there.

He laughed at me and said that he was quite sure every woman I encountered would probably tell me how cute I looked in them and the he knew he was the minority opinion, but he still thought it looked like a Robin Hood costume.

Then to make up for the teasing he told me my hair looked really great.

Which it did.

Regardless of his opinion of the latest trend, I still felt awfully cute as we headed out the door and prepared to parade myself around all of our friends.

Which I did, with great gusto.

Until...

Until I was talking to a grandma and she was making friendly conversation which included the, "When are you due?" question. I felt so smug to be able to say, "Oh, I'm about 30 weeks." And I tossed my hair to imply, "And don't I look just stunning?!"

Except she didn't catch the hair toss and replied, "Hmm..."

I don't like where this is going...

"You're kind of big for 30 weeks aren't you?"

And the tumbleweeds roll.

And my balloon bursts.

And I plaster a smile on my face and brush it off.

And make a quick exit from the conversation to find someone who can appreciate that even if I am HUGE, at least I still have fashion sense.

I hope.

Can I please pass on a word of advice? If you are talking to a pregnant woman, don't make any comment about her size except that she looks great. That is it. We all know we are getting bigger by the minute, but we can't do much about it now can we?

So.

No. Matter. What.

Don't tell a pregnant woman she is big.

Ever.

Ever.

Ever.

Stocking Lunch

Growing up, one of the most anticipated traditions of Christmas was the stocking. My parents made such an event of the little gift appetizer.

My dad would come up with elaborate ways to hide the stocking. Each Christmas we had a list of rules we had to follow and clues to lead us to the hidden treasure. The whole lead up was thrilling, but the stockings, oh the stockings! My mom was a master of cramming as much good stuff as she could into the foot-shaped sacks.

I think we did the treasure hunt until I was about 22 (my dad does it now for Ellery). When we gave up the hunt, neither Liz or I could quite bear the idea of giving up our mom's amazing stockings.

Side Note:

When Andy and I got married

I think he was REALLY intimidated

by my mom's stocking.

We've had to make new rules for

stockings in our house.

As adoring and clever as Andy is,

I just don't think a boy can

stuff a stocking the same way

a girl, especially a mom, can.

The solution we came to was what we call our Stocking Lunch. We put an afternoon date on the calendar and meet to exchange stockings. My mom makes one for Lizzie and one for me, and Liz and I work together to fill up a stocking for my mom.

To this day we have never achieved as awesome of a presentation as she gives us every year, but we keep trying!

Today was our Stocking Lunch. Oh how I love being with my mom and sister!

Lunch was yummy and our stockings were lavish and we laughed a lot. There is something wonderful about sitting in public, digging through one of the icons of Christmas that is usually reserved for children and surrounding yourself with heaps of festive wrapping paper (my mom wraps each individual item that goes into the stocking).

We all ordered the same thing for lunch so when the check came we asked the waitress to split it an even three ways. It was then that, gasp! I realized that my mom and sister had ordered sodas and I only had water.

Oh the injustice!

Not like it was a big deal at all, but we decided that they would put the tip on their cards and everything would even out. Which it did.

But after all of our stocking jollity I think we were a little rummy. I started babbling on about how I had to leave my tip line blank and I didn't want the waitress to think I was cheap or mean. Then I rambled about leaving a note to explain the arrangement we made at our table:

"Dear Waitress, your service was excellent. I'm sure you noticed I didn't leave a tip, but it is because I didn't order soda and my dining companions did, so my tip is included on their tab. Thanks for the great meal!"

We were all laughing at the ridiculousness of it and then my mom and Liz ganged up on me and kept saying, "Do it!"

And you know what...

I did.

I put an asterisk on the tip line that lead her to the back of the receipt and to my explanation. Regardless of the fact that I feel really silly and totally suckered by my mom and sister, I'm finding solace in the fact that the waitress probably had a really great story to tell when she went home.

That's what I'm about. Making other people's day.

Thanks for another amazing stocking mom!

And LAME-O Was Her Name-O

Earlier today a sweet church woman, whom I really respect, stopped by to drop something off for me. I invited her up, even though my house was trashed. My house is always trashed. No matter how many times I feel like I've tidied the same thing, it still looks trashed. Just part of the mommy life I guess.

I've mostly come to terms with it.

But after this sweet, together, proper lady left I realized that right there, in the middle of my living room floor, just feet from where we were sitting and talking, was my zebra print bra. It must have been pulled from the pile of laundry by little hands attracted to the bright pink lining and bold pattern.

Can you see my shame.

Honestly, I only have that bra, in that print, because it fit so beautifully and the only other color option in my size was nude, and I already have flesh colored undergarments.

Well, and who doesn't want a little fun in the top drawer of their dresser? But I promise I don't make a habit of animal prints or trashy bloomers.

So now that lovely church lady has seen my wild underwear. There is no erasing that sight from here eyes.

There is no longer anything secret about my life.

...

Side Note:

Have I told you my most

embarrassing moment?

Probably not since this blog was born

after the awful incident.

Some day I'm sure I will share,

but tonight I am already living in too

much self-pity and shame

to bear another

mortifying revelation.

...

Today is Andy's birthday.

Happy Birthday you wonderful man!

The highlight of every birthday for Andy is Dairy Queen ice cream cake. I have to special order it because he likes each slice of the cake to have a different candy topping.

It really is a pretty sight and DQ cakes are far superior to Baskin Robins. And it makes him so happy, so I play along and order one every year.

We just came home from having dinner (I tried my hand at homemade french onion soup and it turned out pretty fabulous... I've been having kitchen success lately and am eager to tell you about them soon!) and cake at his parent's house.

Our downstairs neighbor often has had his door open on these hot days and because Jack is so interested in him we have struck up a casual relationship.

I know I haven't told you about this neighbor yet,

but what you need to know for now is that

he is quite (as in very) large,

always half naked,

smells very strongly of cigarette smoke,

and on two occasions has asked

to borrow money from us.

Despite all these strikes against him,

Jack greets him with a smile every day.

Andy and I have learned his name

and are slowing gathering pieces of his story.

This is a good thing.

As we were walking in I was carrying the remainder of the ice cream cake (five pieces). I whispered to Andy, asking if I should offer them some cake. I thought he said, "Sure, there isn't much left."

So as we walked in I offered it, thinking I would put three pieces (for him and his two roommates) on a plate and put the other two pieces in the freezer for Andy to enjoy later.

What actually happened was that they said SURE! and took the whole cake box. There was no graceful way to stop them and take the two pieces we wanted. Oh dear. So I just smiled and wished them a good night and proceeded up our stairs to put Jack to bed.

As we walked up the stairs I saw smoke coming from Andy's ears.

Oh no! What have I done?

"You gave them all of it?!"

I tried to explain that I didn't have time to figure out how to keep the two for us. What I discovered a few minutes later was that when I asked Andy if I should share, he had said, "No, there isn't much left."

Oh no. Ohno ohno ohno.

In a mumbly voice I heard him lament, "I only got one piece!"

There is absolutely NO way to redeem this birthday fiasco. I can say sorry. I can explain the misunderstanding. I can promise more cake another day. But nothing, nothing will bring back that cake, of which Andy only got one piece. On his own birthday.

That is a sad, sad story.

And Honey, I really am so sorry. Don't worry, I'll get your more cake soon.

Embarrassing But True

At this very moment Jack is dozing off to sleep.  I am staring at a house that has been ransacked by a lovely, long, messy play date and am toying with the idea of taking a nap instead of restoring it to order.

Oh the luxury of motherhood.  Deciding that naps rank higher on the priority list than dishes.  

But before I cozy up in my down comforter, I have a confession.  

Every Monday I wake up disappointed.  Disappointed that it is not Tuesday.

Care to guess why?

Because Tuesday is Biggest Loser night of course!  

I am hopelessly addicted to the Biggest Loser.  

I'm not sure why I've made such a deep and long lasting commitment to a reality show, but I have.  

Confession #2: I cry almost every episode.  I know Jillian and Bob are over the top with the self-empowerment speeches, but I just can't help but think, "These people may have never thought of themselves in any good terms."  I also cry because I can just imagine the change in their lives when they are 100 pounds lighter.  

I'm a sucker for any sort of make over, really.  But these people are doing the work.  They are learning how to change the course of their lives.  It is good to see people opt for exercise and healthy eating instead of surgery or pills.  I really get emotional when they are able to go off of the 13 medications they have to take each day or when they can fit into some outfit they thought was just a dream.  

Confession #2.5: Pill-popping and quick-fix "health" gimmicks really get me riled up.  I am very sad for our nation and its struggle with obesity and health in general.  I know I'm a bit hypocritical - I know I could do better for my body (read confession #3) but I would say that I live by an 80/20 scale.  80% good for me, 20% for fun.... sometimes 70/30.  But I ache for families that consume only meals from boxes or drive-thrus, or whose primary entertainment comes from a glowing box.  How can so many people just not know how to care for themselves?  

I better step off my soap box before I get too squirly. 

Confession #3: When I wake up on Mondays and face the disappointment of waiting one more whole day to see the next chapter in the Biggest Loser journey, I usually console myself by doing some sort of baking.  

Then I eat whatever I've baked as I watch the Biggest Loser.  

Don't tell me you don't do the same thing!

Brownies have been the craving lately.  Or chocolate chip cookies.  But I think my baking phase is dying down (luckily, the more I'm in the gym, the less I want sweets).  Maybe I'll go back to microwave kettle corn.  Maybe. 

Confession #4: When I go to the gym on Wednesday, I visualize Bob coaching me as I run on the treadmill.  There is no way I would want to face the wrath of a Biggest Loser trainer, so I run extra far or push just a little bit harder than I do the rest of the week because I have a fresh mental picture of someone cheering me on.

By the way, I added

a whole mile

to my run today.

I'm feeling pretty smug.

That brings my mileage to

TWO

miles.

Woohoo.

Oh.

I guess I still have more work to do.

But we've got to celebrate the small things.

Right?

Confession #5: Biggest Loser is my gateway reality show.  I scorned reality tv for so long.  Now, not only do I watch B.L., but I also keep up with Survivor.  WHAT!?  Why?

I don't know why!

I just do.

Confession #6: I'm blushing from all this self-revelation.  I hope you still love me even after you know my shameful secrets.

Now, I have about 30 minutes left to close my eyes and ignore the scattered toys.  After that, it is back to the pick up, play chase, tickle tummy, start dinner routine.  

I have not baked anything yet today, and I just might resist this week.  After all, I want Bob and Jillian to be proud.

And I want to not feel my bum bounce when I add my next mile.

Seriously?

On Thursday I did some work on our family budget.  We usually do pretty well with budgeting, but as Christmas is coming up, I thought it would be a good idea to check in with what we planned on spending for the holidays. 

So, doo do dooo - singsong voice, I printed out a nice little blank spreadsheet of all the people we will be buying gifts for and additional expenses (decorations, wrapping paper... you know).  I printed two copies and had a beautiful plan in my head of Andy and I both individually considering what we thought was reasonable to spend.  Then our Budget Meeting could be short, simply us bringing our ideas to the table and finding a nice middle ground.  It was going to be easy-peasy-lemon squeezy.

What world do I live in?

What really happened was that I showed Andy the sheet and told him my plan.  He made a comment that hurt my feelings (not intentionally, I'm sure.  He would never be snappy on purpose!).  What resulted was a fit of tears and sobbing and hysterics... and blank spreadsheets. 

It was horrible.

But we got over it and went to bed on speaking terms. Always.

Friday came along and I was plagued by a day of indecision.  No choice seemed like the right one.  Lunch options, evening plans, discussions about what the weekend might hold, I was totally paralyzed.  I attributed it to the emotion-hangover from Thursday.  I just kept pep-talking myself and saying, just do SOMETHING. I know myself well enough to know that when emotion strikes, it will go as quickly as it came and I just have to do the best that I can until it washes away.

Saturday passed with nothing much to report, except an insatiable hunger (probably all that working out I've been doing) and Sunday was delightful (see my previous post) minus the blemish on my chin that Andy was kind enough to point and laugh at.

So you would think: emotional, hungry, indecisive... lady, don't you know what's coming?  No.  It didn't really cross my mind.  Every month I'm kind of caught off guard for a few days.  

Why am I so hungry?

Why is my skin weird?

Why am I SO tired, but can't seem to fall asleep?

Why did I TOTALLY blow that comment out of proportion and why am I in a sobbing heap under every blanket that I own?

Hmmm...

Sure enough, hello Monday.  Thanks for clearing those things up for me.  My sweet Andy was kind enough to keep his commentary to himself over the weekend, but once his theory had been proved his line was, "I wondered, but I thought I was better off not saying anything."

Right you were!

That never goes over very well does it?  "Honey, um, could it maybe, um, be that time of the month?"

NO! Uh. Okay, well maybe.  Let me check the calendar.  Oh.  Yeah.  Maybe. Sorry honey.

Seriously? I've been a woman for more than a decade.   How can I be so dense and unaware?  How? 

I was going to get my hair cut this week, but given the lame results last month and my propensity to get emotionally flustered this week, I thought I would postpone until next week. 

Luckily the worst of the hormonal torrent is over and in its wake I have the following entertaining tidbits for you:

One:  Jack now has a HURRY crawl.  It is mainly employed when he sees that I have left the bathroom door open.  He locks eyes on the doorway and then scrambles toward it.  However, his speed does not actually increase, he just pants really loudly like he would if he were in fact moving quickly, which he doesn't.  Yet.  

He tried to do the hurry crawl tonight in the bathtub.  He flopped himself on to his stomach and then got up on his knees.  His goal was to grab the bottle of baby shampoo on the ledge of the tub.  He got is hands and legs moving in coordination, but because the tub floor was so slippery, he just looked like a cartoon character with those spinning legs that don't actually move anywhere.

Two: This afternoon I watched my nephew Dane.  Dane has a cool trick that he does with his dirty diapers.  After he's been changed, you can tell him to throw the diaper in the trash and he walks to the cabinet below the sink and throws the diaper away.  

Today, I was fixing Jack some food, or doing something that had my attention.  I heard Dane behind me in the kitchen and then I heard foil hit the floor.  The only place he could get foil was from the trash can.  Before I was able to intercept, Dane had retrieved a piece of bread that I burnt while making my lunch.  Yes people, I do occasionally burn things (twice this week actually.  Can hormonal imbalance be blamed for burning dinner?).  And yes, people, he did eat that piece of bread.  

He actually carried it into the living room and curled up in the baby bouncer with the bread underneath him.  When he was ready to eat it he got up on his knees, reached under his rump and retrieved the burnt bread (can you imagine the crumbs?).  

Three:  I started cleaning my side of the bed.  My side of the bed is a mess of discarded t-shirts, half-read books, kleenex and bobby pins.  Would you care to guess how many bobby pins?  

Go on.  Guess.

Higher.

Higher.

Even Higher.

45

That is more than come in one brand-spankin-new box of bobby pins.  In addition there were eight other various clips.  

How does THAT happen?  

One of the wonders of the universe I guess.  

So if you ever need a spare pin, now you know where to find it.

And in case you've been having a few of THOSE DAYS in a row, might I gently suggest you check your calendar?

What I don't want to tell you about today

Jack and I were out running errands this afternoon and by the time we got home I was starving.  Starving with a capital S.  

Luckily I had just made a trip to Costco and had some delicious Parmesan Spinach Artichoke Dip, which had two vegetables in it's name, so that means it is good for you.  I paired it with flax chips from Trader Joes (also good for you... flax... Trader Joes...anything from TJ's is good for you) and salsa, which is ALL veggies, so you know, I'm pretty much the most healthy girl ever.  

Despite my wonderful grasp of nutrition, I apparently don't have any manners.  

As I took a bite of chip with cheesy dip, I was simultaneously making "goo goo" faces at Jack.  Somehow not all of the cheese made it to my mouth and I was left with a long rope of dip hanging from my lips.  

Did I delicately wipe it away with the napkin tucked in my lap.  Um, no.  Did I demurely remove it from my face with ladylike fingertips?  Hm, didn't think of that.  I let it hang there!  Then I did that weird lip-tongue gobble thing that four-year-olds do when they are eating pizza or slurping noodles!  

Yep, that's me.  Miss Classy!

I'll make sure Jack has the same impeccable manners that I do.

That is, if he isn't damaged from me DROPPING him today!  Yes, it's true, I dropped my baby. Horror of horrors!  

Okay, I'm being dramatic.  It wasn't really a drop since his body was all on the floor already.  It was more of an awkward arm to floor transition for his head that resulted in loud sobs.  It wasn't just an "ouch mom that hurt" cry.  It was like a broken heart, "how could you let that happen to me mom?!" cry.  

The worst part?  I laughed.  Just a little bit.  Really, it wasn't even out loud.  Just a small internal chuckle.  I'm NOT a horrible person!  I promise I felt remorse.  And I promise I did everything I could think of to make him feel better, but he was just so little and he was so confused and... I guess there are no excuses for laughing at your baby when he gets hurt.  BUT come on!  He doesn't even remember that it happened.  An hour later he was right back to his usual cheerful self.  

Think what you will about my reaction to my bobbled baby.  If you ask Jack, he'll still tell you that I'm the best mom he knows.

Thanks Jack. 

I love you too.