Last Day of First Grade

Posing choices made by Sam.

The Great Bed Swap of 2013

All four of my children have used the same crib. Sam started sleeping in it when he was four months old, and continued until we moved to Philly when Lucy was born. She was the first to have an actual nursery with decor and paint colors to match, seen here. She stayed in there for a long while, until we moved her out to get ready for Maggie. Maggie slept in there until a few months after Fred was born, and there he's stayed. Until now.

On Friday morning I was getting the girls dressed for the day, when all of a sudden their doorway was filled with Freddie. 'I wake up!' he exclaimed. Then he said, 'I hurt my belly!' and sure enough, his little tummy was all red from where he had hoisted himself (headfirst, I might add) over the crib rail. First I made sure he was ok, and then I sent SOB a text to inform him that we would be bed shopping that very night. Interestingly enough, later in the day when it was nap time, he got up to his room a few steps ahead of me, and somehow managed to climb back into the crib as well. I was flummoxed, and so I removed him to the floor and asked him to show me how he had gotten into his bed. He could not/would not show me. I'm pretty convinced that a ghost lifted him in there.

So that evening we took them to Ikea, the bastion of cheap, impulsive furniture buying, and tried to pick out a new bed for him. But we couldn't really find one we liked. We had planned on buying the same bed we had for the girls, because all of the other furniture already matched it, but they don't sell it anymore. So then we started thinking, maybe we ought to get the girls new beds and let Freddie have one of theirs. I've been thinking that bunk beds might work well in their room, because of its dimensions. It's long and narrow, so to maximize space I thought bunk beds along the long wall would work well. SOB didn't like most of them because they were too high. You see, my girls have the habit of jumping around like monkeys, so we decided on this one where the bottom bunk is actually on the floor.

Now they have so much more room to play in there, and they seem to enjoy the sleeping, too. Twice now Lucy has pushed Maggie off of the ladder as she attempted to climb to the top bunk, but we're working on that.

So then there's this: 

The sleeping is only going so-so, but he loves it. Me? I get a little weepy every time I walk in there. We disassembled the crib, and I totally reorganized our tiny attic so that we could store it up there. I'm never getting rid of that crib until I have a grand baby who needs a place to lay their sleepy head. That's reasonable, right?

Awkward Conversations and Babies Growing Up

We have a new sitter for the kids. She's been with us a few weeks now and we all really like her. We're still in that getting to know you phase of things, and since she's easy to talk to we often end up chatting when I'm around. The other day, she asked me how old Freddie was when he stopped taking a bottle. I casually mentioned that we didn't do bottles because I'm kind of a freakish breast feeding advocate. So naturally, she asked me when I weaned him. I looked down at the dishes I was washing when I answered 'last week.' I doubt that she made any sort of bad face, but I just didn't want to see her reaction. 

I had a tough time with weaning this boy. He's the last baby I'll ever nurse. Plus, he was in no way interested in giving it up. If I hadn't started forcing him to cut back he'd still be nursing 4-6 times a day, most likely. He was still asking to nurse pretty often just last week, but this week hasn't at all. This week he's been asking to go potty. He talks in full sentences. He wants to do everything himself. He wants to play 'baseball player' and 'hockey stick' and thinks farts are funny. He drank a freaking frappuchino this morning at starbucks. 

He's just not a baby anymore, and I can't really take it.

Jumping Jack Fred

So Fred is a pretty good sleeper. He goes down to bed quickly and quietly at night, and sleeps at lease 12 hours, but usually more like 13 or 14. Napping has always been fine, too. Until recently. You see, we have one of those toddler trampolines in the basement, the kind with the bar to hold onto while you jump. Like this:

Well, young master Fred discovered that his mattress has springs, and his crib has rails, which basically means that it is a trampoline, too, no? Observe...

I love the part when he has to take a quick break from jumping to pretend color and paint on the back of his crib. Probably because we let him do things like this: 

And then talk he has to stop to talk to the cat. God, I love this kid. And I guess we'll be heading to out to buy a big boy bed this weekend. Wah!

Don't Go Breaking My Heart, Part TWO

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay back before Lucy was born, I posted this entry about Sam growing up. It included this photo of Sam in our gymni from when he was three weeks old:

And this photo of Sam in the same gymni from when he was about eighteen months old:

And you can probably guess what's coming, right? Here is a picture of Sam in the gymni at 61 months:

Do you hear that? It's the sound of a mother's heart exploding.

My Secret Fear of Bees

A long time ago, I developed a severe and somewhat irrational fear of bees. I say 'somewhat' because even though the event that formed the root of my fear was totally traumatizing, intellectually I know that bees are not the big baddies my brain makes them out to be.

My subconscious, however, isn't convinced.

It was July and my brother's birthday. I can't quite recall, but I know it was somewhere in the eight, nine or ten age range for him because I was on the cusp of puberty. We usually had semi-big parties for his birthday, since the summertime afforded more space for rambunctious guests. The usual family, friends and neighbors were there.

Growing up I was the only girl in the neighborhood. One neighbor had four sons, another had two and yet another had one. And then there was my brother and me. Naturally I was rather tom-boy-ish, but by fifth grade I was already sporting tiny breast buds and well aware that play time as usual was probably going to change. So was this one neighbor kid named Tim, who used to pinch my bottom and offer up what he though were encouraging words on my new, um, developments.

Anyway, my brother's birthday party. We were all playing outside and running around, consuming near fatal doses of sugary soda and cake with everyone under the age of twelve and over the age of two. A game of hide-and-seek commenced, and I volunteered to help my cousin Nicole, as she was one of the youngest kids playing. We decided to hide under the shrubs in front of my house, and she easily scootched her little three year old self into the perfect hiding spot. As you can imagine, my ten, eleven or twelve year old body didn't fit quite as well. As I crawled into place, I dislodged a hornets' nest above me. Luckily, it wasn't super big, but it landed squarely on the middle of my back.

It only took a few seconds for me to realize what was going on. I grabbed my cousin and literally tossed her over the porch railing and started screaming. As I tried to make my way out of the shrubs I inadvertently grabbed a handful of the nest when I reached for some limbs to hold onto. I was getting stung all over my back, neck, head and now my right hand.

When I finally separated myself from the shrubbery, a crowd was waiting. One neighbor, who was a nurse, took charge of the situation. I had a countless number stinging insects trapped inside my clothing, so she immediately starting stripping me down in the middle of my front yard. Once she had me naked, save for my underpants, she instructed me to get into the shower. My mom came with me. I thought she was there to kill off the remaining hornets that were trapped in my hair, but more likely she was there to make sure I wasn't going to pass out or have an allergic reaction.

The whole ordeal probably only lasted two or three minutes, but it felt like an eternity. In the end I only suffered just under two dozen stings. They were painful, but a little aspirin paste applied to the sites helped ease the pain. However, the humiliation of having my entire family, my entire neighborhood and my brother's entire hockey team see my nearly naked body as I flapped and screamed in the front yard is something that still makes me cringe today.

All of this is my very long way of trying to make amends for totally knocking over an old man last week while trying to dart away from a bee. I hope that by sharing this humiliating story with the world wide internets I'll earn some sort of cosmic forgiveness.

Next time, ask me to tell you about the time I got head lice.

Reunited, and It Feels So Good

On Monday night I had a dinner with someone I hadn't seen or spoken to properly in almost twelve years. And it was pretty awesome!

I spend a great deal (read: way too much) time online. I blog here. I blog there. I also blog over there. I read 749 other blogs. I tweet. I read random fashion and TV sites. I occasionally try and keep up with the news, too. And now I'm even getting Sam into playing online, so I usually spend some time at Sprout.com most days. So I resisted with great fervor the bevy of social networking sites laid before me in recent years. I knew they would just be a non-essential time suck. 

Then my dad signed up on the Facebook, and I was cornered. I got an invite from him, and I can't say no to my daddy. If you ever want something from me and don't know how to get it, just have my dad ask for you. I'm helpless against him. So I joined up. 

At first, the only 'friends' I had were relatives. I'm the oldest of my generation, so I started following all of my hip teenage cousins. But after my brother signed up, I started discovering some old high school people. Some I barely knew, but others I had been close with. I lost touch with pretty much everyone from high school right after I started college because I was hell bent on re-inventing myself. I moved 300 miles away and pretended that the place where I came from never existed for a few years. Luckily, I made some pretty awesome friends in college, but because I was a dumb ass I left behind a few pretty awesome friends from high school.

Enter the Facebook. Through my bro I was friended by M, one of my best high school buddies. We chatted back and forth about life in the past decade and did the general catching up thing. Then she said she was going to be in town for work and would love to get together. Right off the bat I agreed, and while I was excited I was also extremely nervous. 

First of all, I am pregnant, and besides that somewhat, um, larger than I'd like to be. Especially compared to high school. I mean, at least I have the whole pregnancy thing going as an excuse, but still? Large and in charge. Secondly, I am boring! One of the very first messages she sent me contained the word 'legendary' and I can assure you, there is NOTHING legendary about my life right now unless you count the number of asses I wipe on a daily basis. Because I do, in fact, wipe a lot of butts. But everything else? Meh. I drive a fucking mini-van. Going to the Y and grocery store are big outings for me and the kiddies. I love it and wouldn't trade it for the world, but it doesn't make for very interesting dinner conversation. 

As the days ticked down to our date, I began to fret over what I was going to wear and what restaurant we should go to. I flat ironed my hair, people. I've been with SOB forever, but I can only imagine that this is what dating must be like. 

Finally the day arrived. 

I went out to pick Lulu up from school, and when I got back she was there, looking as youthful and radiant as she did in 1997. After an embrace and an admonishment from Sam to talk quietly, as he was watching TV, we moved into the dining room and started talking. The conversation flowed as easily as it did all those years ago, and even though it was cliche, I got out a box of photos and we poured over the old images. Sometimes we couldn't remember what or when or where, but we laughed all the same. Dinner was more of the same. Our meal was eaten at a snail's pace because we just couldn't stop talking. New stuff, old stuff and everything in between. Stories of people who have ended up in prison (mostly) made us laugh and stories of people who have died made us pause, sometimes to keep the tears from spilling, other times just to take it in. 

Once we said our goodbyes, and made plans for another get together in the near future, I spent almost an hour giddily recounting every minute to SOB. He knew better than to stop me, so he switched on his video game and listened with half an ear as I prattled on and on, quite literally like a school girl. 

Me & M.C. 1996

Family Matters

I've had this here blog for three years and almost four months. In that time I've had two kids, bought a new camera, moved twice, and spilled more than a lot of shit. All from the safe, mostly anonymous space behind my monitor. Sure, a few of you know my face, but judging from my site meter thingamajig most of you wouldn't know if my eyes are green or blue or brown. 

(They are a greenish hazel, BTW.) 

Recently, though, my readership population dynamic shifted a little. I've been seeing more and more little dots in the south western corner of PA, and a few dots in central Florida, and some over in the UK. 

What I mean to say is, my family is reading.

(Hi mom and dad! And Danny! And Uncle Rick!)

I never sought to hide my blogging from them, I just was never one to shout it from the rooftops. I always assumed that they would find it eventually. Because of that (and because I was raised by the 'if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all' school of thought) I try as hard as possible to never write anything here that I wouldn't want to read aloud in front of a roomful of elderly relatives. Mostly. I've always thought that, aside from a few diatribes on my father-in-law, I've been mildly successful.

But.

Now knowing that my father is clicking by every now and again, I cringe at the number of times I've written about my boobs. And my period. And did you know that I have one hundred and thirty-two entries with the tag 'mental' on it? That should make the parents proud, right?

And what about this?!? Seriously, what does this say about me as a person?

The good news? They like it. Well, at least my mother does. And my brother does too, I think. (He does, however, want to write a guest post about himself because he thinks I made him sound too much like a rock star.) My mother called last night to tell me how much she enjoys reading about my boring, mundane life. Even though she probably couldn't tell it, I was a little misty on the other end of the line. Why? Because what little girl doesn't want her mommy to like the picture she drew/song she sang/story she wrote? Just because we're all grown up doesn't mean we don't care about what our mothers think. 

(Note to self: Remember this in about twenty years.)

Thanks, mom. 

Who Is This Young Man?