Tea Party

This is apparently the boy version of a tea party. O and S pulled out our step stool, grabbed a few glass vases and sat down and delicately perched their toy cars in their fancy teacups.

After putting O and S to bed, I took a little while to cuddle J before he fell asleep. When his moans trailed off and his eyes more or less permanently closed, I went to lay him down in the now quiet and dark nursery. From the corner I heard O's sweet voice, "Sebastian's car?"

He wanted to take S's little toy car to bed so I asked him where it was. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Do you know where Sebastian's car is?

O (in a Boston accent for no explicable reason): Yeah. I put it somewheh.

Me (all full of hope for a quick toy find): Where did you put it?

O (still from Boston): Sebastian had it and then he gave it to me and then I put it somewheh. I don't know wheh I put it. I put it somewheh.

We have a lot of conversations like this. So much time and empty hope could be saved if he just said no.

And the P.S. to this story? As I finished typing this post, I went back into the room to check on the boys. O informed me that he had found the car. Sigh of relief, until he used his very next exhale to say he didn't know wheh it was and that he put it somewheh. After putting my cheeks to some very dirty floors to look under some very huge fur/post-pregnancy hair loss hairballs, Bastian's car was found. In the car basket.

I love projects. I especially love to start projects. I love coming up with projects to do. Dreaming about working on projects. Shopping for supplies for projects. Staying up late at night thinking about projects. Making lists of the steps and things I need to finish a project. Planning how I'm going to sneak moments into my day to work on said project. I love that moment I finally put my hands on a new project. I love that moment I'm in the middle of a project when I know enough about what I'm doing to let myself be absorbed in it, after I've suffered through all my failed beginning attempts and found my rhythm. I love that moment I finally put my hands down and realize that a project is complete and good enough (perfection isn't in my reality).

I just kind of struggle in a couple of points in a project timeline. The first stall comes right after purchasing supplies and right before actually picking up those supplies for the purpose of using them. The second stall comes right after I've made the first few frustrating attempts at trying something new and being forced to stare at a concrete example of my imperfections, inadequacies, and utter failure to fulfill my expectations of myself.

I've come to realize that I have a huge amount of fear in my life. I'm afraid of so many things. I won't list them here but I will mention one huge fear-- the fear of failure. It paralyzes me and helps fuel those stalls in my many many projects, both dreamed about and begun but not completed. So here is my attempt to force myself to push through that fear. I am listing my projects here so that they are out there and holding me to some amount of accountability.

So far on my list of projects to work on that I keep on my nightstand are the following:

Julian's birth announcements (Oh yes, I have had them here for about three months now but, you know... holidays...three kids...ear infections...buying cat food...ok fine, making them a priority.)

Vests for Oliver's school (Um, yes, I committed to sewing 60 little vests for our little preschool because I am filled with hope and delusions.)

Floral botanical Rorschach cutout (Just click on the link if you're curious.)

Blown up photos of baby's breath (They are the flowers we used at our wedding that I plan on using as some art for our bedroom.)

Smoke wheel photo (again, because of delusions but I have the perfect spot to put it if it's ever done)

Black and white crane mobile for Julian's bed (actually did complete one for Sebastian)

Mapplethorpe-ish photos of the boys (You may have seen my beginnings in that one and here we are at a stall.)

Smoke photos (just think they're pretty)

Butterfly painting (a big big big one)

Star painting (a big big big one but a lot less work than a butterfly one)

Alphabet book for the boys

Bleaching a shirt I accidentally bleached part of so that it looks like I did it on purpose

Sewing stronger elastic in the waistbands of some of O's pants (Most likely will just be put off until he grows into them. Until then his pants will just keep falling down at school-- nothing traumatizing there)

Organize the desk and closets (Already have a pretty collection of tins and boxes to use. Cue stall)

Knit a scarf (prep work for the next project)

Knit a blanket (Spent an awful lot on supplies for this one because the knitting shop wa sjust so sweet and cozy. Also, it was supposed to be for Sebastian last year.)

Pillows for the sofa (Not actually sure what I mean. Did I mention I come up with a lot of these late at night and write them down in a bit of a haze. Seriously, what do I mean?)

Photo of the world according to O (Or the world according to him back when he was about 18mos. Got to learn Photoshop for this one and.... stall.)

Monthly photo of Julian (Four month photo-check.)

Line drawing of Julian nursing (All I need to do is learn how to draw figures for this one. Easy peasy.)

While typing this I came up with a few more. Ah failure, thy name is Marie.

P.S. Anyone have any great projects for me to dream about and write on my list late at night and go buy stuff for so that I can feel comfortable surrounded by my mounds of potential (that's what I've decided to think of my mounds of unfinished and unstarted projects as)?

via A Cup of Jo

I came across the above images on one of the blogs I read. They're by photographer Edward Mapplethorpe, who takes the photos on the child's first birthday. I love the simple composition of the photos and the way it allows each child's personality to really show itself.

For a while now I've been wanting to blow up photos of each of the boys to hang over their cribs but I haven't been able to find the right pictures. When I saw the Mapplethorpe series, I fell in love and knew I had found my inspiration. I'm toying with the idea of taking similar photos on each boy's birthday to kind of document their growth. So I started playing around with my camera and took the photos below. I've uploaded an album of some of the cutest shots from my Mapplethorpe inspired series but I warn you, you probably only want to take a peak if you're really interested in seeing photos of my boys. The album can be found here.

If we lived closer...

...you could help me decide: reindeer skin or IKEA wool shag? Personally I like the skin there. Don't know why I was so surprised at how thick reindeer fur is. The wool shag is groovy and I love the way it kind of shimmers in the morning light but I hate when it's dirty and I feel guilty enough to spend an afternoon washing it int he bathtub.

I bought the reindeer skin because Andrew was coughing a lot from all the little wool hairs floating around our sitting area. Turns out he's allergic to reindeer, too. So we're making a choice based on aesthetics and laziness. Your vote?

A is for....

Andrew.

I've been wanting to write about this guy for a while now and since he's out getting some drinks with a friend, I get to do it without him around. He'd probably be quite annoyed if he knew I was doing this and I'm hoping he won't delete the post. But today I had one of those times where I realize just how wonderful he is and I have to share despite being warned by a friend who was warned by someone in her church not to brag about your husband because then someone might want to steal him. I'm going to brag, but I don't thing anyone reading this is out to steal him, right?

When we got married, Andrew's grandfather officiated and I kept telling Andrew to ask him not to mention eternity. I knew I loved Andrew. I knew marrying him was the right and best decision. I just didn't want to think about an eternity. I knew every day I couldn't wait to see him the next day and the next day came and it was the same thing. I knew eternity was built on chains of todays and tomorrows and each of those would be spent either with him or wanting to be with him, but taking it all in one chunk seemed like too heavy a weight. I also knew that for me, the longer I spend with someone, the more I love them.

We've been married nearly ten years and I still feel the same, minus the fear of forever. Here's the thing, Andrew is the most selfless man I know. He gives and gives and gives so much that I'm afraid it has turned me a bit spoiled and perhaps made me insensitive to his kindnesses. That's why I wanted to write this post. I wanted to put into words all those little things he does that I should but don't thank him properly for.

Andrew comes home from a long day of work and takes over feeding and bathing and putting to bed all three boys as much as is necessary for me to be able to exercise. That's manly. But even more, he has never complained about it and treats that time as if it is as much of a priority for him as it is for me. That's gentlemanly.

Andrew comes home for lunch every day to help me feed and put the boys down for naps so that they can sleep at the same time and I can have some quiet time. He could be going to lunch with guys from the office or could just use his lunch to eat and relax and de-stress, but he doesn't.

Andrew does the grocery shopping every Saturday, sometimes with me and the boys, and sometimes alone. We do a big weekly shop to take some of the stress out of the week but it's a GIANT pain. Andrew does it and doesn't complain. That's manly (even if he's pulling one of those old lady grocery carts). Some weeks he does it with a couple of the boys, without me. That's gentlemanly (especially when he's got a kid strapped to his chest and is pulling the old lady cart).

Andrew has been known to incite the ire of some of my friends' husbands as my friends tell them what Andrew does. But then they all love him because the guy is just fun to hang out with. One of my favorite things to do is watch him interact with his friends and my friends. I feel like his charm outshines my social awkwardness so I can just bask in its glow.

Andrew works hard. The man fulfills his duties and obligations no matter how irksome they are to him. And he keeps his cool most of the time. When he doesn't, it's kind of exciting. He has so many different personalities to deal with at work but manages to be incredibly diplomatic and sensitive without getting caught up in personal dramas. And then he comes home and deals with three little boys and a usually cranky wife.

Andrew has a habit of going after bad guys. A few weeks ago he threw his bike at a purse snatcher. A week ago he caught a guy getting into someone else's backpack. For some reason, the American in me tends to cheer him on until the wife and mother in me catches on and realizes how dangerous that can be around here. Fortunately this latest episode only resulted in Andrew needing to get a haircut and put in his contacts to disguise himself from the neighborhood do-no-gooders for a few days. That'll fool them, I'm sure.

Most of all, Andrew puts up with things like me spending our last night in Florence searching for the perfect ice cream bar after spending all day looking for the perfect but expensive leather jacket and getting the just right last pizza. I thought he was going to leave me after that one, but he didn't. Maybe he just didn't want to waste the plane ticket back. He understands my obsessive need for things like made beds and picking up before I eat and he doesn't try to change them. I, on the other hand, can't help but tease him by flipping one or two light switches the wrong way in his parents' basement because I know how much it bugs him to have them not going the same way.

Sorry for the long post and please feel free to skip it. He wasn't supposed to be gone this long but I got to let a few things out. Andrew, I see the things you do for me and for us and for others and I just wanted to thank you.

P.S. Andrew's birthday is coming up. Anyone have any fun Andrew stories or things you love about him you'd be willing to share?

Via Habitually Chic

So I have been obsessed with this flat for some time now. It is decorator David Collins' London apartment and I love everything about it. If you click on the link above you can see more. What really captured me, though, was the artwork. I have spent way too much time and brain power trying to figure out how that giant purple piece was created and if I can in any way reproduce it.

And tonight, success! Well, in one respect. Found out who did it, and am fairly certain I'll never be able to reproduce anything like it. Grrrr. It wasn't until I figured out who did it that I could even figure out what it was. I was about to go sourcing large pieces of silk to dye because I thought maybe that's what it was. Turns out it is a super secret photographic process developed by photographer Wolfgang Tillmans.

I really hate discussing art because I spend huge amounts of time thinking about it but any time I try to put thoughts into words, they seem to go through a process that sucks any intelligence out of them and the resulting words are kind of like talking to O. Random ramblings that may or may not make any sense and may or may not express what I'm thinking. So all I can say about this series by Tillmans is that I am fascinated by how familiar something so foreign appears. I've noticed this theme come up other times with other artworks I fall asleep with swirling through my brain.

Any ideas how I can recreate these?

Les Encants

I'm in a major decorating mood and somehow it coincided with a flea market mood. So I went on Monday with 15 Euros in my pocket and came home with these two lovelies. Major finds? No. But something to help me feel happy in our flat? Yes.

Voices in My Head

A long time ago in another lifetime, I heard a whisper. I was sitting on an exam bed in a doctor's office listening to my doctor hypothesize about what had brought me to him.

"There's an 80% chance it's nothing, a 20% chance we'll have to take it out, and of that 20%, a 5% chance it's cancer."

And there was the whisper. My heart heard it. My head said, "This is interesting."

I didn't think much about it and passed the wait for test results without any worry. Then there was a phone call, "We have your test results, blah, blah, blah, cancer. We'd like you to come in and discuss things with the doctor."

I hung up the phone and that afternoon Dad and I headed to the county clinic where I had first been seen. We sat down with the doctor and blah, blah, blah, cancer. A few questions, some answers, a plan of attack, and we went home.

A few hours later, I received a phone call. The doctor himself wanted to be sure I understood that in the midst of all that blah, blah, blah, he had said cancer in reference to me and my thyroid. I had. I had also understood that survival was very high as was post treatment quality of life. The doctor wasn't worried about me if I followed through with the treatments, so I didn't see any reason for me to be worried about me. He was worried that I wasn't worried. But I had heard a whisper so somewhere deep inside I knew.

I knew before the phone call. I knew as soon as he said 5%. But I also knew that as long as I could hear that whisper, all would be well.

A few weeks ago I heard a whisper again. This time it wasn't anything as dramatic as the big C. I was at a cafe having a drink with a friend when she mentioned she was abstaining from wheat for Lent.

There was the whisper. "Wheat."

My heart heard it. My head said, "Please, no." And I did everything I could to ignore it. I think I headed straight to a bakery.

Jude (Jules, Julian, Dr. J. We had such a hard time deciding on a name that we've taken a lot of liberties with nicknames) developed a rash on his face and arms and back a while ago. It would come and go initially but started to stay for longer and longer periods.

Somewhere along this motherhood journey I started to pick up a bit more compassion. This had happened with O and I did the very least I could do and gave up dairy for a week or two and convinced myself that yogurt and cheese didn't count. Seriously? Life without cheese? It helped a bit. I think it somehow skipped S or got lost in the blur that was the few short months between delivering him and getting pregnant again.

Now that it was happening with Dr. J, I was a bit stronger and quit dairy full stop. No yogurt. No cheese. Ok, butter yes-- I'm not a saint. The first day or two his skin cleared with that amazing speed which only the rapidly dividing cells of growing babies can give. I swear he took a nap and woke up and it was gone.

Then slowly it came back. I doubled my efforts. No soy milk even (from what I've read the protein in soy milk can cause similar allergies to dairy and soy is no good for thyroid issues). Oat milk on muesli is so wrong. But it wasn't helping.

I heard a whisper and I tried and tried to ignore it. A few weeks ago I manned up and cut out wheat as well as dairy and my baby boy is a glow worm. He woke up this morning radiant. I spent the day starving and exerting the most self control I've ever been called on to use when serving O his crackers and cheese, my favourite snack.

I hate that those whispers are always right but I'm grateful for a Heavenly Father who sends them, no matter how big or how small. I'm hoping a dairy and wheat free diet is the key to losing baby weight but I need recipes. Regan, I'm looking your way. Is a wheat free pie crust even worth trying? And anyone out there mind sharing some of the sacrifices you've made for your babies? It really helps me to hear others' stories. Makes me feel not so alone when I sit down and eat my tenth bag of tortilla chips thinking they'll satisfy my baked goods cravings. Lindt bars in Dark Chocolate with Sea Salt are helping me survive.

Jaws

Bastian has these beautiful blue blue eyes surrounded by long dark eyelashes. His hair is this perfect delicate wheat shade. He has long elegant arms that have been the means of delivering hugs that stop time for me as I melt into all that is good about being a mother. He wakes up in the morning just to get a little cuddle and read a book, then goes back to sleep without a peep while I finish getting ready. He pats the ground next to him to ask you sit down and just be with him. He picks up stuffed animals and coos. He ever so gently bumps his head into yours to tell you he loves you. He puts his nose in the air for Eskimo kisses and pulls your head close to his cheek for butterfly kisses.

And he has these teeth. His mouth doesn't look like anything special when it's closed but it's rarely in that state. The minute his jaw starts to open, these teeth pop out of nowhere and take over his face. It's just bizarre how big the inside of his mouth is. Makes for very messy kisses.

Also, I'm currently obsessed with this photographer.

The top photo isn't the bet one of him but I thought I should add it for comparison. See, normal sized when shut. It took a lot of searching to find a relatively closed mouth photo.

This is what happens...

...when one of my toddlers gets to the tomato bowl. The photo looks so hygienic. It was actually disturbingly morbid-- speared that sucker right through.

Help Needed

These are our boys. I figured a post with pictures of our boys might get more responses than anything else since, really, they're a lot more interesting too look at than my neck or hand or vase. Lately I've been using the blog more for whatever is on my mind because I can. It's just an experiment in public journaling which I hope to one day have a good laugh over. The truth is my friends keep moving and I'm taking my emotional needs and loneliness out on whichever stalwart blog readers are still around.

Because of said lack of friends (and because Big Benson [another story] is sick of me keeping him up until 3am), I need to vent and to ask for help. About this time last year I breathed a sigh of relief that O was born after January 1st because it meant that I could sit back and relax while all my friends stressed school applications for their babies in O's cohort. Of course a little lump of dread started forming in my heart but I learned to push it away by getting a belly so big there was no room for unwanted snowballing feelings of said dread. Then I had a baby and forgot the dread.

Now it's back and I am scrambling to find ways to shoo it away. The thing is (I hate that I use that phrase but am powerless to stop) the school system here is set up so that children start at 3 years old in a full time classroom, 9 to 5. This does not sit well with me.

What is a hovering mother, who is in denial of being such, to do?

Solution: We can not put him in school yet. School is not obligatory until the calendar year in which they turn 6 years old.

Consequences: We kind of put ourselves in a worse position for getting a spot in a good school when the time comes for full on school. There simply won't be as many spots available and so we could end up not getting one. However, they use a points system here and we gain more points for things like having a registered familia numerosa (large family here=more than three kids. This ain't Utah) and Andrew working in the area. If we wait, we'll have our family registered as as a super duper huge giant family according to standards here by the time O does have to go to school so we'll get extra special points. Might not getting hurt so bad.

But there's the issue of language development. If O stays home and doesn't get language exposure then he'll be thrown into school at age 6 with little understanding of what's going on. He gets about four hours a day of Catalan in school here.

And there's his social development. All his friends will be in school and kids at the playgrounds are younger than him.

Solution: A Catalan nanny for a few hours a week and no school.

Consequences: Takes care of language issues, kind of. At least he maintains exposure to Catalan but I don't know any Catalan nannies. Well, I know one but I think she's busy in the mornings when I would need her. There's also the social issue to consider.

Solution: O goes to school but I volunteer in the classroom for a few hours every week.

Consequences: Most everyone I talk to here thinks this isn't a viable option. Teachers see the classroom as their place that they earned and no one can take from them. Not even parents. I have a huuuge problem with this both as a parent and as a former teacher.

So what do I do? What would you do? I spent nap time today looking up Ted talks on education and the importance of play and watching the Kony video, of course. And here's the thing (see, powerless), my biggest prayer and hope for my boys is that they will be a force for good in the world. I feel a bit limited in my ability to be so right now because my sphere of influence is limited to a few good friends, some family, a husband who is already a much better person than I am, and my three preciouses. And a cat. But my hope is that I can raise those preciouses to be stronger and braver and more good than I am, not to fulfill my hopes for them or my pressures on them, but because I've nurtured their spirits in a way that doesn't cloud their divine potential so they can't help but make the world a better place for their being in it. Is that too much to ask?

But seriously, over and over my prayer for them is that they will be forces for good in the world, not just good people, but forces. No matter how good a teacher they get, how good their school is, can I trust a stranger to help my three year old do this? Can I accomplish it in the three hours after school before bed and on the weekends when I get to see him? Am I strong enough to do what feels right in my heart? What do you think? What would you do? Thoughts, please, anyone (if you've made it through this post, especially if I've never met you-- think I've already bugged anyone I already know about it).

If we lived closer...

...you would probably see me wearing this jewelry every day. Yes that's the biggest ring you've ever seen, and yes that watch was a Father's Day gift to Andrew.

This year we were on a bit of a quest to find the best chocolate con churros without getting taken like we did last year. Seriously? Twelve euros for a couple of espresso mugs of chocolate and about four small churros each, even if the cocoa came with whipped cream?!? Anyways, we were tipped off about a Three Kings Day market that happens every year along a long stretch of a major street here. Churrerias on every corner. So we checked it out. Again. And again. And again. (Andrew had time off work and what's better for lunch than hot chocolate and churros?)

In between churro stands there was a lovely little jewelry stand with a giiiiaaaant silver ring. A large silver ring was on my shopping list for the sales here so you bet I stopped and tried that sucker on. They also had this beautiful necklace that I loved loved loved. I tried to play it cool, like I could survive without them, but I went to bed for several nights dreaming of them and planned our churro scouting routes around seeing my pretties to make sure no one else had claimed them.

The market ends with an insane night of shopping with the streets packed and stalls open literally all night, and with crowds like that, someone else might snatch up my lovelies. I made a plan and a budget for getting them that involved a little patience and ordering through the internet or stalking the shop owners at whatever other markets they would be at this year. And of course when I asked them about the possibility of implementing my plan, the response was that they only do this market and one market in the South of Spain in the summer and they have no email address and take no internet orders. I was sweating (I was also probably being taken, but it worked). I told Andrew on Kings Eve that I was going to head out there for some midnight churros and a little retail therapy with some money I had saved up. And lo and behold, my sweet sweet love of a husband pulled from his pockets the biggest silver ring you've ever seen and a matching jade necklace. No churros con chocolate at midnight, but I knew the man loved me and I love him. Muuuusshhhyy.

The watch is another story. If we lived closer, you would have heard it. Want to hear it now?

If we lived closer...

... you would probably come over at some point and see the branch O lugged home from the park yesterday. This thing is about two thirds the size of O but that didn't stop him from dragging it the whole way home. Nor did it deter him from stopping to pick up several fallen leaves and palm fronds which were then shoved under our stroller. I looked like some bizarre foliage and child hoarder (our stroller was carrying three children at the time). This branch was rather pretty so I didn't mind it but I was less enthusiastic about the dead leaves crumbling into ever so many fine messes in the stroller. I have a thing about dirty baby equipment.

If we lived closer you would probably hear me whine about that, too.

Rough Week

Last Saturday things started getting rough. S came down with a stomach bug that Andrew had as well. Poor Andrew couldn't throw up so he didn't get much relief from his discomfort but S didn't have that problem. Our boys don't get a lot of stomach problems, thankfully, but when they do it's just a day or two of whining (boo) and extra long naps (yeah).

On Sunday I figured a day of rest spent resting would right my little man and we'd all be ok. S was sick but not too sick so it wasn't too terrible of a day.

But then Monday morning I woke up to news that my cousin Mike had been killed in a car accident. Mike was one of my cousins closest in age to me on my mom's side of the family. I always loved hanging out with him and his sister who was just a year older than him. He was one of those guys who was always ready to joke around and have fun but never in a way that made you feel bad. Any time we had any kind of get together I always really looked forward to catching up with him. So many fun memories of family vacations with him and his family. Monday was a rough day.

I had high hopes for Tuesday. But Tuesday morning it was clear S was not getting better. Four days without really eating anything was taking its toll and I was in a bit of a haze over my cousin. On Sunday all S wanted to do was be held. On Monday all I wanted to do was hold him and beg him to never leave me. On Tuesday, spending all day sitting on the floor in my lap seemed like a pretty good plan to S and by Tuesday afternoon he was too weak to do anything else.

Wednesday we took him to the pediatrician and by that point I fully expected to be told to take him to a hospital. He would drink periodically but only water-- wouldn't take anything else. And he'd have rice in the morning and then nothing the rest of the day. To bolster my spirits a bit, I stopped in a fancy little sweet shop and picked up some croissants. S decided these were the only thing in the world he should eat. Didn't seem like a good idea on a day that started with him waking up vomiting at 3.30am but he kept it down and the pediatrician didn't send us to the hospital.

Thursday started with another 3.30am wake up, this time for diarrhea. By then S was so weak at some points during the day he could barely walk. He would just emit this low whine while resting his head on my lap. When I'd dress him there was no muscle resistance and his skin felt baggy on his little body. There didn't feel like much difference between picking him up and picking up Jules. Luckily that afternoon he started making a bit of a turn around.

Friday was another day in. Thankfully it involved some food consumption and no 3.30am wake up. But just as S was coming into the clear and I could exhale with a bit of relief, we got word that our nephew took a serious fall and ruptured his spleen. He is the sweetest boy, a month older than S and with the most beautiful gold locks. I don't know if it broke my heart more to think of the pain he's in and the scary situation or to think of the worry and pain his parents would be feeling on his behalf. I had gotten myself to the point of a migraine with stress over S and his stomach bug was nothing compared to this. I'm anxiously checking the computer every few minutes for any news and breathing prayers on his behalf in between. I know not many people read this blog, especially not many who aren't already updated on his condition, but if you have stopped to read and don't mind joining your prayers to ours, it would be appreciated. I know that Heavenly Father hears them.

T

So I don't forget it...

The other day as O was cramming as much dirt as he could possibly get away with into his rain boots, I was transfixed by a woman wearing an outfit that was executed so perfectly I went to bed thinking about it. This is a poor approximation but the outfit involved a camel colored sweater hitting the waist not too high and not too low, a simple belt, black jeans that were fitted but not tight and hemmed just high enough to show some really simple brown ankle booties. Nothing fancy, but everything perfectly fit.

I'm so impatient to lose this baby weight and feel attractive that I didn't want to forget that hopefully someday I'll be able to fit into a perfect outfit again. So far it's yoga pants and, when I'm feeling fancy, 501s with holes in the knees. After a few weekends spent busting boots in attempts to fit them over my calves and shattering my self esteem in the process, I did at least finally find some perfectly fitting perfectly beautiful boots.

Oh, and p.s., I take back all that positivity a few days ago. I'm sick of stray hairs getting caught in my eyelashes and toothbrush and fork. Hang in there guys, please. There's room enough for everyone. And our hot water heater is out. Grrrrrr.

Park Day

One of the things I love about O´s preschool is the fact that twice a week the kids spend the entire school day in the park. One of the things I hate about it is the fact that twice a week I have to clean up O after he's spent the entire school day at the park.

Our afternoon usually goes something like this:

1.30 Pick O up from the playground and feel guilty because I meant to get there earlier so that S can have time to play. Instead I just look mean for not letting my son out of his stroller at the freaking playground.

1.45 After spending several minutes convincing O to follow me out the gate we begin our trek home.

1.45-2.15 A ten minute walk stroll into a half hour session of wills being slowly broken. Some days it's O's will, some days it's mine. It usually involves several pleas to walk faster and lots of hanging on the stroller because, "Is it hard to walk?" His words, not mine. O spends the entire time trying to convince me that he doesn't need a bath and that just his pants are dirty despite the visible dirt streaks on his cheeks and the mud cakes under his nails. I spend the entire walk reassuring him that we will walk in the door and hop in the bath.

2.15-3.00 Walk in the door and realize that J just can't wait to be fed and so for some reason I expect that the directions I yell to my three year old while having my three month old latched onto me will be followed. Why do I ever tell O to get undressed and get in the bath? He doesn't know how to do that any more than I know how to literally roll around in the dirt and not be bothered by it making its way into every last crevice it can find.

3.00-4.30 Beg and plead and sometimes achieve success in my attempts to get two boys bathed, serve and clean up lunch for three boys, and get three boys down for a nap.

Today was pretty much the same as every other playground day except for the fact that O couldn't get one of his boots off. I offered him a hand and when his foot finally made its exit from the boot, so did this pile of dirt. I love park days.

Some Thoughts on Hair Loss

yes, I'm entering that phase of postpartum that involves lots more sweeping than I usually like to participate in. When I first lost my hair after O, you could find me up late at night looking up different types of hair transplants and figuring out a way we could justify/afford it.

With S, the solution seemed to be to just get pregnant around that time and skip the whole process.

This time around, I find it oddly comforting. The other day as I was cleaning out our shower drain for the third time in one shower, I actually kept rinsing in hopes of washing out any more hairs that felt like taking their chances on a life detached from my head. I wanted to shed them all. Letting them go lightened me. Each hair that fell seemed to leave a place that hope filled. The hair will come back. I will get my body back. I will slowly but surely find time for things like movies and Sunday night popcorn and apples. I will fit into something other than yoga pants and maternity t-shirts, depending on how soon I can perfect my pies and halt the quest.

I'm still afraid to look in the mirror but at least this time around I know that in a few months I get to be fascinated at all those little spikes growing in. I keep dreaming of getting a chic short haircut but hold onto my long sparse locks because they carry my history. There's the layer after O that's about 18 inches long, S's layer is about half that, and now my widening part is making way for J.

If you haven't given up on us and are wondering what we're up to...

... it's pie. Lots and lots of pie. "But, " you might be wondering, "didn't you have a baby or two since your last post?" And yes, we did and that started the whole pie thing.

Andrew's wonderful mother came out to visit after the birth of our latest wee one and it just so happened that it was Thanksgiving. And Thanksgiving means pie. And if you have one pie, then you have to have another when that one runs out. So poor Jeanne fell into our trap and made us pie after pie, ending with the best apple pie I think I've ever had (but just to be sure I'd better try a few more out). Then she left and the pie was gone.

We soldiered on for a few weeks but it was no good. There was no pie. I was suffering post pie depression but Jeanne came to the rescue and sent me a few recipes. Lo and behold, pie depression ended with my first successful pie. I think I've made a pie every other week or so since then.

But this pie love has led to a few shameful behaviors. The first pie started us into this sad selfish spiral. I was so excited to share it with my boys-- a little baked love from Maman. And what happened? O didn't even finish his slice, let alone ask for seconds or ask for maman to make more. I wasted a whole piece on that ingrate. And so he got no more. The other day he asked if Mama was making a treat and if he could have some. He got a packaged cookie from me-- no pie for you. Yes, I hide pie from my own child now.

And then there's our wonderful neighbors. We love them. We think about bringing them pie to share some of our love for them. And then we think that that would mean that there is a pie that we're not eating. Can't have that, so no pie for the neighbors. I'll make them cookies.

Probably most shameful of all is that the hour between 11pm and midnight is no longer bedtime. It is now officially known as "pie time" and each day is spent making references to the upcoming pie time. My days are also spent whining about being fat, but that is always put on hold for pie time.

I've even begun to wax philosophical about making pies. For me it's like having children. I've made a few, and this latest one has turned out pretty dang good, but I still don't feel like a pie maker. Am I seriously a mother? Mothers are supposed to know a lot more about being mothers than I do, just like pie makers know a lot more about making pies than I do. But did I mention that this latest pie turned out pretty good? Best of the bunch, according to Andrew. Is there hope for this newest baby? I'm already pretty in love.