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.