Our transformation from ski bums to white trash is nearing completion. Sawyer ran around in today's 80-degree weather wearing naught but a diaper, building dirt mounds (opposite of sandcastles) in our gravel driveway (note lack of grass AND lack of gravel). The only thing that saved us from complete W.T. status were the Crocs on his feet. And the usage of the word 'naught' above.
I worry less and sing more. I take fewer pictures but give more kisses. I am sillier. I don't count the milestones, and I break all the rules. I start using clothes when they are a size too big and keep using them until they are a size too small. And, I treasure the little things, like a tiny hand gripping my shirt while she nurses, because I know how fast it all disappears.
It's almost 5 months and I'm just getting around to my four month post. This month Arden weighed in at something like 12.5 pounds and she was somewhere around 23.5 inches tall. She's learning to sit up and still working that gorgeous smile. See more photos on Flickr.
It was a bittersweet day for us - our last day at Tina's house. Sawyer has been going to Tina's ever since he was Arden's age. But now, Tina's hanging up the burp cloth and going back into the 9-5 workforce. Her twins are off to kindergarten in the fall and she's tired of being trapped at the house all day long. Who can blame her? I just didn't realize how important her role in our life would be or how sentimental I would feel about it. I still remember my own childhood baby sitter, Mrs. Gailey, who threw her trash in the fireplace (which burned year round), watched The Price is Right and had hundreds of amputee plastic cowboys, indians and army guys on the back porch where we played. And the house was always dark. These are the things I remember from a very young age. Three or four maybe? I wonder how much Sawyer will remember of Tina?
On the other hand, our new 19-year-old nanny starts tomorrow, and I am SO looking forward to being able to leave the house without 7 bags and two children hanging from my arms.
On the left is Sawyer on his very first day at Tina's with friend Nathalie.
Scott picked up this old riding mower for a song from a Sanford and Sons fixit guy on the side of the road. It even has flames. He's thinking about taking it on the local lawnmower racing circuit. Really. There is such a thing. Mowing the lawn seems to be Scott's new favorite way to wind down when he gets home from work. Sawyer is simultaneously fascinated and horrified by the thing. He points at it all excitedly (because it has WHEELS) but the minute it starts up, he runs up on the front porch crying. This afternoon, Scott convinced him to take a ride. I'm not sure what he was doing here. We put sunglasses on him to protect his eyes but he kept covering them with his hands like he was too scared to look. He peeled his hand back only long enough to wave at me as he went by.
I have to add here that Sawyer has taken to calling the lawnmower "uh-oh." Where ever he sees one he says "uh-oh."In the days when the Declaration of Independence was just a tickle in the back of Thomas Jefferson's mind, the upper Northern Neck was home to Great families: the Washingtons, the Lees, the Monroes and the Tayloes of Mount Airy. Ten generations later, the Tayloe family still resides in the same house. We got to wander the gardens with the 12th generation recently:
18th century plantation houses like these are as close as we come to castles in this country. I love Early American History, but what enthralls me is to see it preserved so naturally . . . by everyday living. The gardens aren't perfectly manicured. Cultivated wildness stretches its arms across brick. A rose bush moves in on the boxwoods. The boxwoods themselves are left to wildness:
The outbuildings have taken on new uses with each new generation.
I image that our toddler boys amused themselves on the grounds much the way little boys did 200 years ago.
They discovered forts in the boxwood:
They mooed at the cows. The cows mooed back:
They played in giant mud holes. Well, at least one of them did:
They hung on the split rail fences planning their next adventure:
I threw a baby shower yesterday. It was comedy and tragedy all rolled up into one strawberry-asparagus salad.
First thing you have to know about me - my husband is the cook. Normally we divide and conquer on these things: He cooks, I clean. Even though it was my gig this time, he helped. I gave him an entire reporter's notebook page filled with a honey-doodoo list that included: "move construction materials," "make quiche" and "empty diaper pail."
Sawyer found ways to entertain himself quietly while I raced around the house like a headless chicken. He: Pulled the shoelaces out of Scott's work boots. Removed every piece of tupperware from the drawer. And made 'art' with his new green marker all over his kids table and chairs, his clean shirt for going to Mimi's house and every inch of exposed skin.
My mom came to the toddler rescue around 10:30 and Scott left 30 minutes later to go to work. At the precise instant that Scott was walking out the door, Arden blew out a diaper and covered in herself in poop up to her shoulders. I had no choice but to bathe her. I put her in a nice dress, and then draped the rest of her body in bibs and blankets hoping to make it until baby shower time without another wardrobe change.
In the days leading up to this shower, I was very relaxed. I offered to do it for a playgroup friend since she kindly offered to do the same for me a few months back. I turned her down because - call me crazy - baby showers kinda creep me out. Especially the games and passing the presents around.
On the other hand, they are a nice way to celebrate the pending arrival, and they serve a special purpose in alerting momma that an actual, living-breathing baby is arriving in a few short weeks and they better be ready. It never fails to freak a woman out.
Real live babies are always welcome at showers as they tend to help drive the whole point home:
So with the "no games" rule firmly in place, I set about organizing the party. Another mom-friend was in charge of the invitations, the cake and the balloons, so all I had to do was provide the place and the food. No problem.
I had seen this strawberry-asparagus salad at the gourmet takeout shop across from my office a few weeks ago and thought I could replicate it. Only I had no idea what went into it. After Scott went to bed, I did my best with a recipe I found online. I was very proud of myself for preparing three salads AND the iced tea the night before. I was SO ON IT.
So I thought.
With the poop catastrophe under control, I had only an hour to finish cleaning, shower, dress, and do my new short 'do, which nobody had seen yet so I wanted to make sure I had time to straighten it.
I dilly-dallied around with the lemon scented Pledge and the vacuum hose attachments for a little while until, with only 30 minutes to go, I resorted to sweeping off surfaces with my arm, scooping everthing into drawers and cramming dirty laundry into the back of closets. It was possibly the most Cat In The Hat moment of my life - the kind of thing you'd see in an 80s movie starring Matthew Broderick.
With 15 minutes to go, I danced through a cold shower (no time to let the water warm), partially dried my hair, fried it with the flat iron and opened the door like June F-ing Cleaver when the first guests arrived 2 minutes later.
I may possibly be the worst hostess ever. My co-hostess kept having to ask people if they needed refills on their drinks, and I didn't even think about having a bag for the used wrapping paper, but other than that l guess things went alright.
Scott says I should have left the quiche in the oven longer, the iced tea was possibly too strong (one girl took a sip and tried to give it away to somebody else saying she 'hadn't acquired a taste for tea') and the strawberry-aparagus salad turned out to be a pink oil bomb. (NEVER EVER use vegetable oil on a salad, Scott reprimanded me later. Always use olive oil. Vegetable oil is for frying things.)
When the whole thing was over, the mom-to-be was left staring at a large pile of gifts with the classic freaked-out look on her face. This look alone made it all worthwhile:
