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I couldn’t have ordered up an easier sleeper. *dodging shoes & old tomatoes now* Please, take pity on me as SweetPea never slept through the night til after we night weaned her (that’s fancy crunchy talk for stopped nursing her when she cried and woke up at night) at 12 months and then my poor sainted husband spent 4-6 weeks rocking her back to sleep most nights. Now you can think, oh, you should have let her cry it out; it’s your own fault she was a bad sleeper. Had that thought or similar? Fair enough. But she was a real peanut size wise and breastmilk was her best caloric intake. And I didn’t intend for it to keep going. Every night we’d stare at the ceiling…
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Three kids. Oh. Wow. We have to adjust and adapt. Lots of this lately: Baby wakes up and has wet a little through onto the bed. Spit up. On me. The bed. I remove his diaper and think–where’s a clean one–while I’m fumbling for it, his lovely water fountain of pee erupts like a happy geyser. Me wet. Bed wet. Pillows wet. Still fumbling for a clean diaper. Cursing my glasses as I can’t find them. Get new diaper. Before I get it on, the churning of the poo begins and then me, bed, pillow (wet), clean diaper, and freshly awakened husband sprayed by a hose of poop. Then things like this happen. Big kids in tub with me and baby. SuperBoy decides to dump water on his…
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She’s the world’s most opinionated 2.4 your old I’ve ever met. She has very definite needs. And shares without equivocation. “Mama, where is Cloe and Darling and Thumper . . . oh, Thumper is at church with Jesus. My dollies need to come with me and nurse. And I’ll tuck them in. They will love me.” “Can you HOLD ME?” Arms up stretched. “NOW?” x 100/day. “I NEED you. I need you to take my hand and walk me to my room. Then you can sit in the rocker with the baby and sing to me while I play in my bed.” Her bed. Her favorite place on earth. It’s just an Ikea cheapie crib that now has one side down & a little plank…
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I went to Texas. Again. With BabyLoves. In the sling. This time it was for another conference. Last time was all about being women together. And supporting each other. And rap karaoke. This time Megan, Bridget, Lauren, and Grace hosted us. Such sweet hostesses. They went so above and beyond. Every meal was sponsored. The drinks (no alcohol for this paranoid nursing mama) were DELICIOUS {hand squeezed lemonade, anyone?}. All the restaurants we went to were interesting and good, darned good food. The sponsors were generous with their swag and very generous with their insights. Every time I turned around, we were doing something fun and interesting. The ladies even played a little pass-the-baby so I could be bebe free for a few minutes to take notes…
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A wonderful electronic friend of mine (one of my sisters says that’s a weird way to introduce people on my blog–but it’s TRUE!), Kendra from Catholic All Year, wrote a book. And not just any old Catholic book (as if there is a serious category for “any such x-religion book). It’s a little guide to confession for kids and parents before the Big Day. If you’re still following with this conversation and you’re not Catholic, I’ll give you the quick version: Catholics (and other Christians) believe that people were born with something called “original sin” on their souls, their spiritual life within. After baptism, that’s wiped off by the Godparents & parents making promises and declarations on the baby’s behalf. But subsequently, because we are…
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Joining Jen & her crew for the 7 Quick Takes over at Conversion Diary. — 1 — I’m just getting done what needs to get done. That’s my dad’s favorite phrase. That and, “pull my finger.” And maybe a few other dadisms we have chronicled through the years. He’s absolutely the funniest person in the world, hand’s down. {Sorry, Jim Gaffigan–I did just read your book and LOVED it, but my dad is funnier.} My dad’s a doer. He comes from a family of doers. A cousin’s fiancé jokingly refers to my aunt and my dad and all their siblings as “human doings” instead of human beings. My dad’s faithful thought is, I just get done what needs to get done. He never complains about doing work…
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