Ready for Spring

Yesterday afternoon, it got above fifty degrees in my area. I gleefully told my kids that they could put on their shoes and go outside to play—no jackets required.

The long, cold winter has obviously messed with them. During the summer, I can barely force them to stay inside when there are raging storms outside. Yesterday, on a gorgeous day? They did NOT want to be bothered with going out.

Too. Freakin’. Bad.

I informed them that they WOULD put on their shoes, and they WOULD go outside. And, ten minutes later, when they said they were ready to come in? I told them they WOULD keep playing outside until Daddy came home (an hour later). And then I enjoyed the beauty of having sent all four children out to play.

Yes, you read that right. I even sent out the baby.

Now, before you go trying to match my comments up to your map widget to figure out where I live and report me to Children’s Services, let me explain. My kitchen has a door in it. That door leads to the beautiful, large deck that my husband and father built a few summers ago. A deck that they built with a very secure gate. I like to think of it as a giant, outdoor playpen.

While the older boys climbed their favorite tree, scrubbed their little red wagon, and used a fallen tree in our woods as a balance beam, Eli happily toddled around and watched what his brothers were doing. I put a ball and a walker toy out for him to play with, although I must admit he was a little more fascinated by the plastic bottles in the recycle bin.

My boys got some much needed fresh air and my kitchen got tidied up while I watched their progress and cooked dinner. It was a beautiful thing.

This morning, I woke up and could tell that it was already shaping up to be another warm day. I was so excited at the prospect that I walked around opening windows and turning off the furnace. Then, I looked at the weather bar on my computer and realized that it was only 43 degrees outside.

You know what? I decided that I just didn’t care. The furnace stayed off and the windows stayed open all day long. My house never got too cold, and I got to enjoy some fresh air, which probably helped me as proceeded to never stop moving for the rest of the day.

I’m not one who usually feels inspired towards some big Spring cleaning. Truth be told, I really don’t enjoy the task of cleaning at all and am frequently overwhelmed trying to keep up with the messes that my kids make. But the prospect of having somewhere around thirty-five people in my house for a birthday party this weekend? Yeah, I’ll get my butt cleaning for that.

Originally, my goal was to get the upstairs carpets cleaned this morning while Sean’s grandmother was here hanging out with the kids (life lesson 5,600,032: carpet should NEVER be put in an area where small children eat on a regular basis). It took me all morning to get everything picked up, vacuumed, scrubbed, furniture moved, and scrubbed some more.

By the time the kids’ quiet time rolled around, I definitely had earned a break.

I didn’t take it.

The rest of my day was spent clearing off those surfaces and corners where the clutter accumulates, dusting, sorting through and throwing away stuff from the accident that we had held onto for insurance purposes, and working more on my kitchen (which still isn’t done). All day long—I never quit moving.

I finally stopped when it was time for the kids to go to bed. My body is acknowledging all that it has done today. My back problems are starting to complain at me. I’m ready for a good night’s rest.

So I can do it all again tomorrow.

I Was About to Rename the Internet Connection “Maria”

Question of the day:

If your almost-three-year-old tries to distract you from the fact that he is supposed to be cleaning up his room by sweeping the kitchen floor, do you tell him to go do what he was told, or just happily cross that task off of your own “To Do” list?

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Last week, Sean brought home an internet signal booster thingy to try and give me a more consistent signal on the laptop (since we live next door to my parents and they don’t mind, we got rid of our internet provider when we realized we could pick up their signal from our house). On Saturday, he plugged the thing into his laptop that I have been using, installed the software, configured everything, and let it run.

My signal went from “low” to “excellent.” This made the fact that I was then completely incapable of making the internet work even more annoying. That’s right, no matter how many hours I screwed with it, I showed an excellent connection that refused to function at all.

After consulting with one of my techie brothers, it was decided that the problem was most likely due to a conflict between the Microsoft network software on the laptop and the Cisco software on the booster.

Of course, in my mind this meant that every time I tried to use the internet, all of the little random bytes of information were out there, pirouetting around each other in groups wearing leather jacket and cardigans, brandishing switchblades and yelling helpful things like, “Uh!” and “Ha!”. As any fan of musicals could tell you, nothing was going to get accomplished until somebody died. Murdering my husband wasn’t an option (I need him around to help me raise five kids), and I couldn’t figure out how to kill the stupid software that caused the problem in the first place.

I ended up suffering through lack of internet AND a nasty cold at the same time. Not pretty. My mother took pity on me and loaned me her laptop so I could at least have access to Noah’s online school courses.

Today, almost two months after my laptop took its fatal swim in a creek, my new computer showed up. Hooray! I spent the afternoon installing my favorite software and downloading the pictures that have been waiting on my camera. There is just something absurdly comforting about having my own computer again. I love being able to set everything to my preferences without having to worry about what the person who owns it thinks, or whether or not anyone will get annoyed that I put software on it. I’m like a little kid who is finally getting her own bedroom.

My parents came over this afternoon to check out my new toy.

“Oh, it’s red!” my mother observed.

My dad and I both just looked at her, a little surprised, since my goofy decision to actually pay extra for a different colored case had been discussed—at length—the last time I was at their house.

“Yeah, Dad thinks I’m crazy,” I told her. “I paid extra to make it red, but I didn’t spend the money to have them put a fingerprint scanner on it.”

“How much was the red case?” she asked me.

“Thirty dollars.”

“And the fingerprint scanner?”

“Um, twenty dollars.”

Yeah, I’m pretty sure she thought I was a bit silly, too. But, really, it isn’t like I’m writing about national secrets here. And what girl doesn’t enjoy a little bit of flare, even in her gadgets?

When Sean came home later, he briefly checked out my new computer, then said that he needed to find the disk that he brought home for me.

“Oh, you were able to get the Office disk from your brother?” I asked, hopeful that I would be able to take care of the last big software download I had left.

“Oh, no, he wasn’t able to get that to me today. I meant the disk for that internet booster.”

Yes, he was serious.

No, I didn’t take him up on the offer. But you probably already guessed that since I’m still using the internet.

Seventeen Weeks

While I’m posting this a few days late, the picture in this update really was taken at seventeen weeks (or, at least, what I think is the seventeen week mark). Between the raging crud my kids and I have been sharing, and the massive computer issues that I will discuss in a different post, this is the first chance I have gotten to do an update.

Folks, I look pregnant.

Last Wednesday, at the end of our youth activity, I was talking with one of the girls about when I was due and the fact that I’m only a couple of weeks off from the ultrasound. Another girl, overhearing (well, actually, overSEEing since the girl I was discussing it with is Deaf) said, “You’re pregnant again?” When I confirmed that I was, she told me, “Yeah, I kind of wondered, but I didn’t want to ask and have you think I was saying that you look fat.” Smart girl.

The other day, I was sitting with Wyatt and said something about the baby in my tummy.

“I believe you that there is a baby in your tummy,” he told me, “because it is starting to get round.”

Oh, just wait, it gets better.

Yesterday, Caleb was sitting behind me on a chair. He wrapped his arms as far around my waist as he could and started patting the sides of my stomach.

“I like your big tummy,” he told me with a smile.

That’s nothing.

Earlier in the week, Caleb was standing in front of me patting my “big tummy.”

“There is a baby in there,” I told him.

Standing on his tiptoes, he moved his hands a little further north.

“Are there babies in these?” he asked.

Um, no. At least Sean got a good laugh and a chance to make some comments under his breath. I’m so glad that I can provide a little comic relief.

 

Earlier today, I was reading a post by another pregnant blogger, Heather at Dooce, and was shocked by her description of a recent dream. I guess it is that collective subconscious thing, but I had basically the exact same dream a week or so ago.

In my dream, I woke up in the hospital with no recollection of having given birth. Despite my apparent unconscious-for-days state, we were preparing to leave with our new baby. I had given birth to a little girl with dark hair.

“They needed a name for the birth certificate, so I told them to use the name Aniah,” Sean told me.

I became furious. There is someone else with a significant role in our lives named Aniah. Because of the relationship, I would never EVER give one of my children that name. Just like (much to my husband’s dismay) I would never give a child the name his brother’s stillborn daughter was given. There are some names you just don’t use. In the dream, Sean kept assuring me that the hospital had told him that we could always change the name later if we decided that it wasn’t right. Um, right.

Two more weeks and I will know the gender of this little person. Then I can break my self-imposed ban on baby name books and ensure that my kid will have a name I approve of—even if I’m unconscious when it goes on the birth certificate.

Up My Stream of Consciousness Without a Paddle

Maslow has nothing on Nintendo.

The hierarchy of needs claims that physiological needs, security, and love all come before things like achievement and problem solving. Maslow obviously never played the Lego Star Wars video game (is that not just the geekiest sounding thing ever?). You see, I could wake up in the morning, discover that I was too weak to move off of the couch (let alone care for relatively helpless progeny), and beg my husband to take mercy and he would insist that he couldn’t possibly get to the office late, let alone stay home all day. But if my kids happen to figure out how to get past the part of the snow level they have been stuck on in the Star Wars game right around the time Sean should be getting into the shower?

Let’s just say he was almost half an hour late getting out the door this morning. And they were all yelling and high-fiving when the level was beaten.

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Wyatt is an exceptionally bright kid. It amazes me, sometimes, the things that come out of his mouth.

Last night, he was trying to get out of eating dinner, so he told me that his stomach was hurting.

“Well, if it’s that bad,” I told him, “you should probably just go ahead and lay down.” And, really, I meant it since I wasn’t entirely sure that there wasn’t something wrong since he had just fallen out of his chair. Not that falling out of the chair is anything unusual—it wouldn’t be a meal if Wyatt didn’t fall out of his chair—but he did manage to hit his chin so hard on the table that it instantly bruised. Since he doesn’t usually hurt himself while falling, I was open to the possibility that he might be sick.

After a few seconds of thinking about my response, he looked at me very seriously.

“Mom,” he said, “I really don’t think that that is going to be necessary.”

It was delivered in such a grown up way for someone who is only four. Sean and I both started laughing which, of course, offended Wyatt.

As I was telling the story to my parents later, we started discussing just how smart he is. I commented that I needed to start working on reading with him again. I had started briefly when Noah was just learning to sound things out (Wyatt was still three at that point) and decided to quit because Wyatt was picking it up more quickly that Noah and Noah was getting frustrated.

I went back home right after Sean had put the kids to bed.

“Wyatt grabbed one of Noah’s phonics books tonight and decided to read to me,” he told me.

Yep. Just like that. He still has to sound out each word, but he has very little problem doing it. If I work with him every day, he’ll be reading on his own in no time.

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As I continue the saga that is potty training Caleb, I find myself in a familiar position. He has mostly mastered the proper disposal of solid waste, but is still making many sets of tires disappear from the fronts of Pull-ups on a daily basis. Wyatt was the exact same way.

This morning, I suddenly remembered how we got past it with Wyatt.

While Noah was having a school day with Grandma, I loaded the other kids up and drove to the mall. We went straight to the Build-a-Bear store (which, I discovered this past Saturday, should never under any circumstances be visited on Valentines Day unless you want to stand in line for an hour just to get into the store and make the vomit-inducing token of love that will likely be burned at the stake when things just don’t work out). I told Caleb to look around and tell me what his favorite animal there was. He very quickly honed in on an adorable elephant. I let him hold it, stroke it, and give it hugs. I used my phone to take pictures of him and the elephant together. I told him that we would come back and make him his own elephant after he had kept his Pull-up dry for three days in a row. That’s right, folks, I’m using the promise of a stuffed animal to bribe my kid to pee in the potty. I took the pictures to remind him just how much he wants it. And he WANTS it.

I’m just wishing I had worked on the concept of time before I made the deal.

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A conversation at my house today:

Wyatt: (Crying) Noah kicked me!

Noah: He was yelling at me!

Me: Did you kick him?

Noah: He was yelling at me!

Me: Yes or no. Did you kick him?

Noah: HE WAS YELLING AT ME!

Me: Go to your room.

Noah: HE WAS YELLING AT ME!

Me: You’re yelling at me. Should I kick you?

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The second half of my day with the kids today was a bit, shall we say difficult? As we were eating dinner and my kids were playing a rousing game of let’s see how many times we can almost spill the soda Daddy is letting us share, I finally looked at Sean and told him that I was “inside out.” Every so often, I reach a point where it feels like someone just ripped off my skin, flipped it over, and reattached it with every last nerve-ending exposed. Yeah. Once I reach that point, you had better not even think of TOUCHING MY AURA. Really. Just stay away.

By the time I was heading out the door to our Wednesday night youth activity at the church, I was one loud noise away from imploding into a quivering mass of gelatinous goo. A word to the wise husband: When your wife is in this state, don’t even think of saying, “Sure, another whole evening without kids,” as she is walking out the door. Even if you plan on trying to play it off as a joke. Because she may just contemplate un-ladylike hand gestures while muttering about the nine hours you get every day without kids.

Tonight’s activity at church involved all of the boys and girls doing different service projects (cleaning the church, making signs for a food drive, making cards for some of the members). I was asked to be in charge of one of the groups. The kids were split up using the count-off method. Somewhere out there, the “one, two, three, four” gods were laughing their collective butts off. I ended up with a group of one Beehive and three Deacons. For those who aren’t familiar, Beehives are 12-13 year old girls (this one just turned twelve), and Deacons are 12-13 year old boys. Girls at that age are at the height of self-consciousness. Boys that age? Aliens.

I think I know how slugs feel when you pour salt on them.

Sometimes, It’s Easier than You Think. Sometimes, It’s Not.

I can’t remember if I have mentioned this yet, but Caleb has been a bit different since our car accident. Not in everyday life so much, just in church. Caleb has always loved going to nursery. He is the only one of my kids that I didn’t need to help adjust to the idea of going into the nursery (in our church, kids don’t start going to the nursery until they are eighteen months old). He just went right in. He quickly got to the point where he was excited to go every Sunday. We would drop him off with a smile on his face, and pick him up to happy explanations of what he had done that week.

Since the car accident, he has refused to go into the nursery alone. He would cry and cling to me when I tried to drop him off. I decided to stay until he felt comfortable. He clung to me and melted down if I tried to leave. For a couple of weeks, when it was time for me to go into the Young Women’s classes, I would take Caleb to Sean in Primary. One week, I decided to see what would happen if I took a bit harder of a line on it. I left him, melting down, and went to class. Since he wasn’t calming down, one of his teachers offered to bring him to my class every ten minutes or so and let him see that I was still nearby. It kind of worked for twenty minutes or so. Eventually, though, I ended up going back in with him.

This week, I decided that I would just commit to spending both hours in the nursery in an attempt to give him a whole Sunday without being upset. The first hour went great. He interacted with the other kids some and paid attention to the lesson. When the toys came out, I figured it was safe to take a pregnant lady break. I told the nursery leaders that I was going to go to the restroom, then told Caleb that I needed to go potty but I would be back in a couple of minutes. He started crying. I told him that Eli was going to stay in the nursery, too (surely, having his little brother there would reassure him that I was coming back, right?). He grabbed my leg and held on for dear life. One of his teachers, Jenn (the awesome one who had brought him to me at ten-minute intervals before), picked him up and I headed out the door.

By the time I came back a few minutes later, he was in a state that I have never seen him in. He was curled up in a ball on the floor, eyes closed tight, crying so hard that even his hands were turning red. I picked him up, saying “see, I came back.” He stayed rigid, kept his eyes closed tight, and started trying to kick me.

“He thinks you’re me,” Jenn told me.

Um, yeah.

As soon as I said, “Caleb, it’s Mommy. I’m back.” he relaxed, put his arms around me, and stopped screaming. It took awhile before he would play with the toys again.

It was heartbreaking.

I have no idea how to help him. When my other boys had issues with going to nursery, I would comfort them for a few weeks, then wean them off of having me there. But that was just normal separation anxiety. This is different. I don’t feel like I can expect him to just get over it. There is obviously something going on, and the timing is just too coincidental. I just have no idea how to help him.

In the meantime, though, we did have a talk about not kicking me—even if (especially if!) he thinks I’m one of his teachers.

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Lately, Noah has been talking about wanting to have his own room. Really, the timing is pretty good—the three older boys are all in the same bedroom, and there is no way that we would be able to put a fourth bed in there when it’s time for Eli to move out of our room. My ultimate plan was going to be to put Noah and Wyatt into the bedroom downstairs, have Caleb and Eli in the current bedroom and, when the time comes, either put the baby in one of those two bedrooms if it is a boy, or by itself in the tiny fourth bedroom if it is a girl.

When Noah started asking seriously last week for his own room, Sean decided to start implementing that plan. He instantly moved Noah’s dresser downstairs and was ready to take the bed down, too. I decided to encourage him to not jump the gun—we’re talking about a kid who still comes into our room most nights. I was highly skeptical that he would actually be willing to sleep in the basement alone.

Last night, Noah said he was ready. Since the mattress to the spare bed was still in that room, we laid it on the floor and piled on some blankets. For reassurance (just as much ours as his) we set up the baby monitor in the bedroom. We kissed him goodnight and waited to see what would happen.

He fell asleep right away. Even more amazing, he slept through the whole night. Actually, he slept in almost an hour later than his brothers this morning.

He’s down there again tonight. He did have one moment of concern where the ferret making noises in his cage sent Noah scurrying up the stairs with his pillow. Sean reassured him and he went back down. He’s asleep now—we’ll see how tonight goes.

I can’t believe my baby is suddenly enough of a big boy to have his own bedroom in the basement.

He’s Lucky He’s Not in Trouble

This morning, Sean asked me to get my remaining diamond earring (you know, the one that wasn’t ripped out of my ear and lost during the car crash last month) so he could stop by our favorite jewelry store and get it appraised while he was out today (insurance wouldn’t cover it until we proved how much it was worth). Wanting to make sure it stayed safe, I emptied everything else out of my little jewelry carrier and handed it to him with the earring securely inside.

This afternoon, he called to tell me that the appraisal had been done. It was quite favorable. He bought me those earrings eight or ten years ago from the same jeweler he went to today. Based on the remaining earring, she appraised the lost one for significantly more than what he bought the pair for back then (keeping in mind that appraisals tend to be for what it would cost to replace it at one of those overpriced mall stores—we go to this place because she is awesome and her prices are so much less). The extremely practical side of me thought, “Cool! I can replace my earring and use anything left over for practical things.” I asked him if he talked to her about how much it would be to replace the lost earring through her. He said, “No, there are always so many variables with those things, I figured I’d let you take care of that.”

When Sean got home from work this evening, he immediately handed me my jewelry case. I opened it to be sure my earring was still securely in its place.

It was gone.

“Um, Dear, my earring isn’t in here.”

His eyes got big.

“What???”

I just stared as he started feeling around in his pockets. Right before I lost it, he pulled out this:

 

 

OK, I couldn’t manage a good picture. Anyhow…

He explained that it was a whole new pair (um, yeah, I noticed). They are bigger than my old earrings and the diamonds are better quality. Um, yeah, my practical plans were soundly thwarted.

So, he started with explanations about wanting to replace a bad memory with something happy and exciting (delivered with an entirely straight face). Whatever. “Practical” had already been replaced by ooooh, sparkly.

Later, he asked me if I liked them. The best I could come up with was, “Um, I feel like a rapper.” Seriously. I’m feeling rather mug-able right now. They are gorgeous.

 

 

Of course, I have to send them back to the jewelers after this weekend. He wants to take her advice and have them reset in a white gold martini setting instead of the traditional gold setting they are in now. She said that it would make the setting disappear so it looks like the diamonds are just floating on my ears. OK, I can live with that.

Needless to say, he’s not getting any crap about Chuck-E-Cheese tomorrow.

My Super Romantic Life

So, we all know what tomorrow is, right? A day for hearts and flowers and cards and romance.

Oh! That reminds me! I heard a story on the news yesterday that a study had been done showing that attraction has nothing to do with “romance” and is based entirely on hormones and biological preferences. You like who you like because thousands of years of evolution have told you what the right type of person for you to breed with will be.

Hmmmm…

Let’s say that is true. Is it going to affect what you do tomorrow night? Or who you do it with?

Sadly, I’ll have no such luck. My Valentine’s Day is already set in stone. And, this year, we are setting the bar for Valentine’s Day. And we are setting it depressingly low.

My Valentine’s Day dinner will be at Chuck-E-Cheese.

That’s right, we’re going where a kid can be a kid—and a parent can attempt to block the whole experience out with beer if they feel so inclined. Were I even remotely the drinking type, I would be so inclined.

Now, before you decide that my poor husband is an absolute clod, I’ll let you know that he’s just as excited about the prospect as I am. We did not choose this particular fate. We just happen to have a niece with a birthday on Monday. Since we don’t do things like go to birthday parties at Chuck-E-Cheese on Sunday, it was scheduled for tomorrow night to respect our religious beliefs. And ruin any chance at romance on Valentine’s Day. Ahhh, sometimes the right thing ends up being the sucky thing.

So, do you all have romantic plans for Valentine’s Day? Come on, let me live vicariously through you.

I know, I know. After reading this, you’re just thinking, Dude, as long as hubby doesn’t plan something involving hundreds of over-stimulated kids and a giant, dancing rat, he’s getting lucky.

Fifteen and a Half Weeks and Looking Pregnant

First, before I update you on all things pregnancy related, I have a little matter to conduct with those of you who know me in real life.

Ready?

First, raise your right hand. Place the left one on the nearest copy of People magazine. Now, repeat after me:

The pregnant body is a beautiful thing. I understand and accept the right of every woman to shun the maternity muumuus of the past and wear clothing that makes her look pregnant, as opposed to whale-ish.

This being said…

Should Katie ever tell me that she would like to perform in front of millions of people looking like this…

…I will promptly whack her upside the head with a Grammy (or any reasonable facsimile thereof). 

Thus it is spoken, thus it is. Thank you for your cooperation.

Seriously, folks, those pictures are actually flattering. During her performance at the Grammys, she absolutely looked like she was wearing some sort of diaper. Can we say “homemade craft project”?  Baaaaaad. Very Bad.

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Yesterday was my second appointment with one of my midwives. She started by asking me how I’m feeling.

My answer?

I’m feeling like I’m having some of my late-pregnancy issues. Already. I’m aching in uncomfortable places if I stand up too long (a problem since I spend the vast majority of my day standing up and chasing children). And the lovely varicose vein that showed up in my leg last time? Back already. And, this time, it hurts if I keep my leg bent for too long.

Now, mind you, these are just small annoyances. I’m happy to deal with them if it means I get another child. I’m just surprised at how early they are showing up this time around. Of course, who knows? Maybe after I’m done carrying around a sick baby all day, my body will stop whining again.

After chatting about veins and pains, it was time to listen to the heartbeat. As I tend to be a bit neurotic about how the baby is doing until I can feel it moving around, I always look forward to this part. That little thump-thumping is very reassuring for me.

She squirted on the gel. She put the doppler on my belly. She moved it around and around to the sound of nothing but static.

Finally, shortly before I had a panic attack, she excused herself to get a different doppler, saying that she suspected that this one was broken. Um, thanks for giving me some hope. Of course, she could have played a really fun game of “give the neurotic pregnant lady a heart attack” and brought back another defective one. Luckily, the one she brought back was working just fine and she was able to find the heartbeat quickly. It was right around 140—the middle of normal, preventing her from making any gender guesses based on it being faster or slower.

And speaking of gender…

No, I didn’t find out this time. Obviously—I’m only 15 1/2 weeks. BUT, we did schedule the ultrasound! Somehow, it is exciting just having it on the books. So, March 12th I get to find out whether this will be boy number five or not. Until then, I’m vowing to stay away from baby name books. It is so easy for me to find girl names that I like, and so hard to find boy names that excite me. I always end up going into the ultrasound with a girl’s name picked out and no clue on a boy’s name that we can both live with. And that ends up being a little depressing. So, this time, no looking at girls’ names unless I find out that there is a need for it.

And now, for the picture. I have never taken regular belly pictures throughout a pregnancy in the past. I kept putting it off—first because I wasn’t showing and then (the past few days) because I’m always pretty trashed by the time Sean’s home and can take a picture of me. So you are forewarned—this certainly does not qualify as the best picture ever taken of me. Just remember—it is the end of the day and I have been dealing with two sick kids all day long.

OK, the angle I’m standing at makes me look a little bigger than I actually am. But there is no question, I am showing. It was only a week or so ago that I wasn’t. How quickly things change.

This and That

So, I’m just curious…

Can four-year-old boys get PMS? Because, seriously, the way Wyatt has been acting the past few days…I’m about ready to buy him a bar of chocolate and a box of tampons.

I know, I know…I’d just end up with a sugared-up kid playing submarines in the toilet.

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Has it really been almost a week since the last time I sat down and wrote something? Certainly, it isn’t for a lack of things to talk about. It’s just that I have had two kids with gastrointestinal bugs. And, naturally, it would be the two that are NOT toilet trained.

Time flies when you’re wiping butts.

Because of this, you have missed full posts on such thrilling topics as ordering my new laptop (hooray!!!!), which should show up shortly before my birthday, assuming that the Dell website isn’t lying about how long it should take to get it to me. I am DYING to have it. Sean’s extra work laptop is a great machine, but insurance companies are a little touchy about their administrative rights, what with all kinds of personal information being stored and all. And I am missing some of my favorite software (Windows Live Writer…Oh, how I look forward to meeting with you again).

And there was the post not written about shoe shopping. For black, close-toed heels for church. Apparently, stores just don’t believe in carrying any cute ones this time of year. But, open-toed, raisin colored wedges? Those just screamed to be brought home. If I were ever to take a job in retail, I’d want to work at DSW. Or maybe not. I’m guessing the employee discount would leave me with less money than if I just stayed home.

And, of course, I haven’t written a week fifteen update. And I definitely have things to talk about with the pregnancy. Plus, I want to start posting weekly “Watch Katie Morph into a Hippo” pictures. But even that will wait, since I have an appointment with my midwife tomorrow.

Instead, I’ll just talk about the weather.

A little over a week ago, we had a huge snow storm. We got snow, then ice, then more snow that made everything slick and white and miserable. And because it has been so bitterly cold, it all stuck around.

Today, it was in the fifty’s. Tomorrow, it will be almost sixty degrees. Suddenly, my attitude is improved with the hope that Spring will come soon. Or, at the very least, that the obnoxious bitter cold will be over. I can handle the 30’s. But this 0-10 degree nonsense? Not. my. thing.

It has been so glorious and warm that I have even walked out on our deck in my bare feet–something that would be even more wonderful if not for the fact that the fat dog has grossly misinterpreted the meaning of the term “poop deck.”

Ewww.

I’m Becoming Obsolete

First, can I say how much I hate that I can’t help but relate major life events to the car accident? I would like nothing more than to forget that it happened–to not be affected by the memories and alternate endings that play over and over in my head. Really, I hate it. But that doesn’t change the fact that life is full of cause and effect.

And so, I give you an update on Eli.

One of the more significant injuries that I sustained in the accident was a significant gash to my right breast (there is nothing like looking down and seeing a cut so deep that your fatty tissue is totally visible–visible to everyone since your shirt and bra have been all but cut off of you). I still have know idea what hit me there, but it obviously hit me hard. That whole side of my chest turned black, blue, purple, green…you get the idea.

Ask me how excited that made me to nurse.

Sure, nursing on the left side wasn’t bad. Really, the actual nursing on the right side was pretty tolerable, too. When he would (frequently) bring up a hand to pat me, though? Yeah, bad. At ten months old, our nursing frequency decreased significantly. After a couple of weeks, I started to feel bad about how little milk (and how much juice) Eli was consuming. Since he has never had formula and we were only a month and a half from his first birthday, I decided to buy a gallon of whole milk and see how things went.

He is my first child who actually lit up with his first taste of milk. He absolutely loved it. He will gladly drink it over and over. As a result, we’ve all but weened. Some nights, he will still nurse at bedtime, although I’m fairly certain that he isn’t really getting anything. Other nights, nothing. I’m tempted to just say that it’s time and cut him off completely–he’s only a few weeks off from his first birthday.

I just feel guilty. He didn’t choose this in the same way that my other kids did. It was forced on him. And the really crummy part? I had to do it at a time when he needed to be comforted by me more than ever. For that first week or so, when they were all the most freaked out by what happened, I wasn’t even to be there for my kids as much as I normally would. I was in bed. I know that I had other people taking care of them all but, still, it sucks.

With Eli’s new found love of milk, Sean has taken the initiative to try a little signing with him. Every time he pours a sippy cup of milk, he says “milk” and does the sign (why am I attributing this just to Sean? It was his idea at first, but we both do it). Eli has made the sign a few times, now. He has also made some close attempts at saying the word “milk.”

And then, there is today’s breakthrough. We have been working some on trying to teach him to walk. He has been standing up without pulling up for a week or two now. And I have seen him manage one or two tiny steps before falling down. This morning, he decided to walk from our recliner to one of the dining room chairs. He took at least ten steps in a row, and made it to his goal. He was obviously pleased with himself, especially after I started clapping and cheering. Since them, I have watched him make several more attempts at walking decent distances, with varying levels of success. I give it a week or so, and he’ll be walking all over the place.

As my mother told me this morning, I’ve lost my baby. It’s a good thing I’m having another. 😉

Another side effect of Eli getting older is that he has left his mid-morning nap behind. Of course, with the added energy expended with his new activities, he’s having a hard time making it to everyone else’s nap/quiet time. A couple of days ago, he fell asleep in his highchair while waiting for me to get Caleb ready for his nap after lunch. I took pictures and laughed at how cute his spontaneous need for sleep was.

Today, he fell asleep in his highchair, again. This time, his mouth was full of partially chewed chicken. That’s right, he was so tired that he fell asleep mid-bite. Poor kid. It’s tough growing up.