Age-ism

The new guy at work asked me this morning how old Sawyer is and I said '20 months.' Note to self, childless people think you are nuts if you count above 11 months. I used to know that.

Sawyer's trike

Sawyer's new favorite word is OUTSIDE. He says it: ow-SI-yd. And that's where he wants to go. All the time. He wants to put on his SHOES and go OWSIYD to play on his new BIKE, which is really a trike, but try to explain that to a one-year-old. The BIKE was a hand-me-down from our godson and Sawyer's still too small for it, so it's very frustrating. He can't quite reach the pedals, and it's a squirrely thing to try to push around. But, he loves it very much - being a subspecies of the most beloved CAR-CAR. Half the time he sits on the thing backwards, and when he gets on the right way he can barely reach the floor to push with his feet. I watched him try to drive it around on the gravel driveway this weekend. That proving too difficult, he started to push it up the driveway to the asphalt cul-de-sac (our gravel drive is a quarter mile long hill). Halfway up, he started screaming frustration. I was impressed he made it that far. Then he wanted to bring it into the house, which I let him do because I'm a sucker and it was too darn cold for me OWSIYD this weekend. But inside there are too many things for the trike's cumbersome back wheels to get caught on. And the frustration mounted to tears. So the BIKE had to go back OWSIYD. Sawyer spent the rest of the weekend standing by the door: BIKE? SHOE? OWSIYD! DADA! BIKE! OWSIYD! and melting down into a puddle on the floor. Look at his face. What kind of cruel parents are we to deny our child that kind absolute joy.

Playing dolly

I was never big into dolls as a kid. I tended to strip them of clothes and give them bad haircuts - as my friend Molly can attest (I once gave her brand new Madame Alexander doll a thick shelf of bangs the day after Christmas). I wasn't much of a girlie girl either. I quit ballet when I was seven to play soccer. And, I'm really kind of a Jerry's Kid when it comes to fashion for myself. But, I have to admit, I'm having fun dressing Arden. We mothers of boys tell ourselves that boy clothes are just as fun - what's cuter than a mini surf shirt, after all? And we satisfy our impulses to doll our boys up with Christmas sweaters and sailors suits on birthdays (despite loud protests from the husbands). But, I am here to say - it's not the same. You just can't get excited about how well a blue polka dot shirt coordinates with green leggings and a flower print dress with a boy. I mean, are boys even allowed to wear polka dots?

Easter

The Easter Bunny came!!

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Egg die, mmmm.

How to dye an Easter Egg.
by Sawyer P.
1. Dip hard boiled egg into blue dye.
2. Suck wet dye off.
3. Dip same hard boiled egg into pink dye.
4. Suck wet dye off.
5. Dip hard boiled egg into yellow dye.
6. Suck wet dye off.
7. Repeat steps 1-7 until face and fingers are brighter than the eggs.

It's in the blood

Remember the kid who wasn't interested in coloring? He left us some surprise artwork on lumber we had stacked in the hallway to trim out the upstairs. Looks like he knows how to use a carpenter's pencil.

My Ninnies Need a Spa Vacation.

Maybe I thought it would be less painful the second time around. Or less of a hassle. Truth is, it's the same. Those first days - oh so painful - like a trillion tiny knives. Apparently, boobs are not like feet - no calluses here people. And once the milk came in, there was a near drowning experience every time she ate. (God forbid she let go mid-feed, setting off the milk sprinkler into her own face). Once we got that under control, there was the puking down my side without warning, mid-feed. And whenever I try to be discreet by throwing a blanket over my shoulder she spazzes out under there and we have to go into full crises mode so I don't flash the whole room. Don't underestimate the horror of the occasional forgotten nursing pad (my boss's wife may have wondered why I was crossing my arms so tightly across my chest and rushing the conversation last weekend). Or what about the pad that falls on the floor in the middle of a restaurant (I thought Scott was going to die - you'd think the things were used maxi pads the way he looks at them). And then there is the fact that you pretty much have to sleep in a bra every night. Poor melons don't get any fresh air. Ya ya ya, I know, it's worth it in the end (and once you start a $30/week formula habit it's impossible to stop). But, I can't say that I am one of these mom's that going to wax poetic about the great bonding time I have with my baby while nursing. I see it more like sitting on an excercycle. Whenever I need a push through the pain, I just close my eyes and imagine the calories I'm burning.

And the award goes to . . . .

ME!

I won first place for my business and financial writing in the Virginia Press Association's annual contest. If only some of those smarts would translate to running my own life, all would be good. Seriously, the stories probably won because they were on topics like an Alpaca farm and a beekeeper. That's how those kind of contests work. Somebody reads 35 stories on the housing market and gas prices and suddenly a story about cute woolly creatures from Peru sounds like a first place winner.

We headed to Roanoke this weekend for the awards ceremony. Sawyer stayed with my parents. It was 2-on-1 defense all weekend. He worked them over like a neckbone - playing them off each other, they said. 'I don't know how you do it with one person,' my mom said when we got home. Of course, she DID do it with only one of her and two of us for many years and we all survived.

Arden came with us. She was a complete angel except for the three hour window surrounding the awards ceremony itself. She slept for the entire 4 hour car ride - both ways, didn't cry at all two nights in a row, and even slept through dinner in a quiet restaurant Friday night. But as soon as we hit the publisher's suite for cocktails on Saturday, she started fussing. She screamed her head off in the hallways of the hotel on the way to the ceremony and she wailed during the invocation. Good thing my award was first. We made it to the end, rocking her in our arms and stuffing a pacifier in her mouth. But we were so worn out afterwards that all we could do was to head back to the room, order a second dinner (yummy pastrami sandwich and bananas foster) and pass out watching Bobby Flay.

I didn't get a picture of me in my dress with my award, and I didn't get a picture of Arden swinging in the hotel room. That's right. Scott actually brought the entire Fisher Price Ocean Wonders Aquarium Swing. He loves that thing and wasn't about to be left alone in the hotel room with Arden and NO swing while I schmoozed with the Fourth Estate. But I did find a picture of the lovely, and historic, Hotel Roanoke where we stayed.



Don't leave home without it:

Hand-Me-Down

I received my first hand-me-downs mere weeks after learning that Sawyer was going to be a boy. They arrived in four waxed seafood shipping boxes from a mom of three who was pulling the plug on the baby machine. I did not fully appreciate at the time just how grateful I would soon be to have all those really nice clothes. After that, I started receiving regular "Huggies" shipments, recycled bulk diaper boxes full of hand-me-downs and, again, I don't know how I would have survived without them - jackets, shoes, footed pajamas just when I needed them. Now I am sending out my own "Huggies" shipments. And I am surprised, yet again; I'm realizing just how great it feels to pass on clothes. I am pretty attached to some of those outfits - they have imprinted themselves in my mind like a photo - the birthday outfit, the coming home outfit, the first outfit we bought. If it wasn't so weird, I would frame them and hang them on the wall. But, I like the idea of sending them off - a mix of some of the clothes I inherited and some that I added along the way - to become part of somebody else's indelible memory.

To the moon!.jpg

Meet my jealous boyfriend. Last night, Scott and I were hugging in the kitchen and Sawyer came running across the great room saying 'no no no' and pulling at my leg, actually peeling us apart. We pulled him up for a group hug. This morning we were snuggling on the couch and the same thing happened: 'no no no,' he said and crawled up on top of us. Then he gave me a big hug. We sandwiched him between us until he wriggled free.

It's funny. I remember being really sad around the time Sawyer turned 9 months and weaned himself. He was so wiggly and always on the go - no time for cuddling. I thought I'd never have that again. Now Sawyer loves hugs. And nothing feels better than a squeeze from a little person.

I wish I could jar those jealous little 'no no no's' and the chubby soft feel of his arms squeezing my neck. I'd take them out years down the road, on some day when I'm feeling blue. It would be the most powerful medicine on earth.

You aren't going to believe me . . .

. . . I don't even believe me. Arden rolled over this morning. Twice. Front to back. I know. You don't believe me. I propped her up a bit on her arms, so she had gravity on her side. But she had the neck strength to lift her head up and lean far to the right, taking the rest of her body with her. The second time she went left. The third time, well I was trying to show her little miracle off to Scott but she was plum tuckered out and couldn't do it again, just confirming to me that it was indeed a major accomplishment the first and second times. Only two months old. And rolling over. This is a gold star moment, people, if ever there was one.

Photo Shoot

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EAP: 2 Months

Arden continues her trend of becoming short and fat just like . . . well, we're still not sure quite who she takes after. Here's the stats:
11 lbs (60%)
22 in. (30%)

This is my summary of today's doctor's appointment:
Doctor: I am going to inject your daughter with five shots. One could make her bleed out her butt. The second may cause high fevers. The third could give her seizures. The fourth could make her break out in a rash. And the fifth could make her turn white and pass out momentarily. But then she'll wake right back up. If they don't kill her, these shots could save her life. Here, take some Tylenol and hope for the best.

It's a Boy! It's a Girl!

Sawyer and Arden have two cousins on the way. Ross and I grew up without any first cousins to play with, so we are looking forward to a big extended family and many future holidays and vacations with the whole brood.

My brother Ross and wife Niki (on left, in 2004) are expecting a baby boy July 31.

Scott's brother Brian and wife Jami (pictured with Justin in 2005) are expecting a baby girl June 21.


Yippee. I foresee lots of hand-me-downs heading their way.