Mostly Wordless Wednesday: Taking Out The Trash Edition

Well technically it's the recycling, but you get the point.

PS: Today is March 31st. It is sunny and 75 degrees, with a gentle breeze. This is Minnesota and this sort of weather might happen at this time of year once every 3-4 HUNDRED years.

I had coffee out on my deck this morning and the windows have been wide open since 9am.

You have no idea how happy this makes me. So happy, in fact, a tiny spider was crawling on my deck chair and I didn’t even squish the little sonofabitch. This can only be explained away by the warmth of spring causing some sort of twitterpated goodwill towards all God’s creatures. Even the tiny ones with too many damn legs and eyeballs.

Yeah, that spider was granted a reprieve.

Until Keaton got a hold of the little bugger, anyway.

In his defense, he was only trying to pet it.

{EW.}

Happy Spring, everyone! Here’s hoping the warm temps are reaching far and wide today.

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Video Debut

The answer is yes.

Yes I am going to be an annoying asshole and start posting nauseatingly self-indulgent videos of my children.

iphone! FTW!

Apologies in advance. I heart you, Internet.

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I sent out a cry for help and no one listened.

Once upon a time in early December 2004, there was a young, bright-eyed newlywed who, after saving from her newish job, decided what she wanted to splurge on.

A fancy phone. A really fancy phone. A phone that by today’s standards would cost maybe 70 bucks but back then it was state of the art and cost many hundreds of dollars. I was ecstatic and in love and we should have lived a long and happy life together, that phone and I, only just a few weeks later I started throwing up and the plus sign on the pregnancy test was the heralding in of my fancy phone’s DOOM.

That plus sign turned into Rowan J Gunterpants who was truly the world’s sweetest baby. Only that sweetest baby drooled. A lot. That sweetest baby was also not so very sweet during car trips which she spent squirming and whining and crying. One day I picked her up from daycare when she was about a year old, and she was incredibly cranky and was NOT excited to be in the car. The only thing that seemed to distract her from the awful TRAUMA of riding in a motor vehicle was to push the buttons and play with my (locked) fancy phone.

It was harmless! I had let her do it so many times before and nothing bad had ever happened. And she was so blessedly quiet when she had it that I didn’t even turn around or check on her in the rearview mirror. When we got home I walked around to get her out of the car and there she was, holding my phone. With her mouth. Her poison drool had penetrated my beloved phone so thoroughly and completely it never ever turned on again.

Well, dummy, I hear you saying, didn’t you get phone insurance or a protection plan on a phone that cost that much money?

And I say to you, HMMM ,DUMMY, Do you think I’d be telling you this story if I HAD GOTTEN THE MOTHERFUCKING PROTECTION PLAN?

It was dead. Gone forever. We’d been together less than a year. It was very sad.

With shame I went back to T-Mobile and picked out the free piece of crap they give you and to get it for free we had to sign a three year contract. My punishment, we decided, would be to never spend that much money on a cell phone ever again. Too risky. Too much money. Too much heartbreak over a freakin inanimate object.

And I was totally, 100 percent fine with this decision until Apple, those sonsabitches, came out with the iphone and I was all “I waaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnttt it” and “I’ll love it and feed it and never let anything bad happen to it EVER”.

And Bill was all: “NO.”

Not until the kids, with their gooey secretions, were old enough to know to keep it out of their mouths. I pouted but knew he was right. Plus? iphones=KERCHING KERCHING. And we certainly did not have kerching, kerching.

About a year ago our contract with T-Mobile ended, and since we didn’t want to re-sign they hiked our rate up a little but we were free agents. Free agents with a very drooly one year old. And to be honest we totally forgot about it until we were reminded how of how awesomely cool the iphone is by this lady, who came to visit last weekend and who I totally blame for all of this.

Here is something you should know. Bill and I totally enable one another when there is a large ticket item we both want. We act casual. But we know we are secretly influencing the other to JUST DO IT.

“Hey, are we still on contract with T-Mobile?”

“Hmm, Jeesh, I don’t know, I’ll check into that.”

“Yeah, I’m just curious.”

“Just checked. No we’re not. Maybe I’ll go stop into AT&T to just, you know, look around. Price some stuff out.”

“Huh. Ok, if you want to I guess.”

“Why don’t you just call me from there. Let me know what they have.”

“Oh, sure. Will do.”

And you all know where that brings us. To this status update/tweet:No one intervened and we are totally powerless against Apple. We are putty in their hands. No, not even putty. WE ARE MUSH.

Bill called me with the phone and plan prices and it was actually really reasonable compared to our crappy non-contract t-mobile family plan so I obviously gave him my blessing and that was that. I knew I was getting a bright shiny new iphone and man, I was nervous. What if it didn’t like me? What if Keaton tries to poop on it or flush it down the toilet?

Then I saw it and none of that mattered anymore.

I was in phone love. Once again.

I let iphone (will come up with a more suave name once I get to know him better) have a short, supervised visit with a future Apple geek-ass.

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Am not going to lie. This post is about poop.

Well, Internet I have a little time here while the dry clean only drapes from the kids’ room are being laundered by my totally wet clean washer in an attempt to get the poop out, so I thought I’d check in and see how you’re doing.

What’s that?

Yes, I did say poop. And I am not dry cleaning 15 dollar clearance drapes. Especially if I have to tell someone what they have to clean off of them. Well. I guess I’m telling you, but you’re the Internet! You’re like family to me. Or something.

You may have guessed by now that the poop belonged to one Keaton Sir Poopypants, who is having a rather hard time grasping the whole “poop is for the diaper or the potty” concept. He is more like “Yes, it IS for the diaper and the potty… but it is also for the undies, the carpet, the chair, the wall and the drapes. Oh. And my hands, hair and other various body parts.”

There is so much EW in that last paragraph.

When we hit a snag in potty training with Rowan we simply went back to diapers for awhile and tried again in a week or so. The problem here (besides the obvious one of FECES ON MY DRAPERIES) is that the kid is ROCKIN’ the pee-pee in the potty. He goes on his own without much need for reminding and can do so without much, if any, assistance. He’s gotten so reliable I’ve taken him out on short trips in his underoos, and if he needs to go he can hold it until we find a bathroom. He is genuinely excited and proud of himself and I don’t want to take away his precious Lightening McQueen underpants because he loves them with his whole little boy heart and I’m afraid in retaliation he might come after me late one night with a shiv fashioned from his crib bars. I think it goes without saying that I don’t want to be shived by a toddler.

Things I’ve tried?

Glad you asked.

1. Explained to him that if he doesn’t want to go No. 2 in the potty that he can simply ask for a diaper and we will be-fit him with one with which to do his business in. He seems to understand this and every morning when I put him in his undies he says with a big grin “No poo poo in da undawoos!” but alas. There is ALWAYS poo-poo in da undawoos.

2. Preemptively put a diaper on him during the High Pooping Hour (aka 10:30-11:30am). He keeps the diaper on until he has to pee, at which point I take it off and let him sit on the potty. Immediately following peeing on the potty he slips away and poops on the floor. Or puts up a stink about putting the diaper back on so I let him wear the undies which he promptly craps in.

3. Offer his most favorite and most sought after treat of all time: The Piece of Gum. He has attempted to get a piece twice now by trying to transfer the poop from his undies to the potty (via his FINGERS) and saying with a hopeful, smiling face: “I had a good twy though! Can I have a little piece of gum?”

We also have offered to sit with him, leave him alone, let him watch potty videos and read potty books, talk to him about poop (and how we DON’T TOUCH IT WITH OUR HANDS), but everyday, save the two times last week, he does the same thing. And I get that when he makes the big messes it’s not like he is trying to play with it like some sort of poo-flinging primate. He doesn’t like the feel of the poop so he is trying to clean up his own mess by taking off the icky undies and trying to get the poop off of himself.

I’m pretty sure the only solution here is time but ugh! and ew! and I know I signed up for this when I decided to become a parent but man. SO GROSS.

Any new suggestions are so totally welcome. Now I have to go see if my drapes are de-pooped and still real-people-sized after going through the wash.

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Introducing…

Mia Rose, 8 pounds and 20 inches of beautiful baby.

Isn't she perfect? Oh of course she is. She is MY niece after all.

Em did an absolutely AWESOME job and after 15 years of bitching about not being given an epidural with Maddy, she finally got her wish. Better late than never.

Dad is pretty happy too. Big yawn! It's hard work being born!

We just love you already, Mia. All the way down to your little piggies. Happy Birth Day!

PS:Watch out for these two:

Keaton, whose throne as the youngest grandchild has been usurped by you, may attempt some sort of guerrilla uprising in the future. For now he is just curious about this little bundle, asking us "Can I pet da baby?" So here he is. Petting the baby.

Here is Uncle DCFI using you as a football. Probably stay away from this guy until you develop a strong right hook.

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Spring Break Photo Essay

This last week was spring break for us, this being the first year since I’ve been out of school, that it felt like it was an actual break. Rowan didn’t have preschool, Keaton didn’t have music or toddler class and we decided to take this session off from swimming lessons so the only activity we had all week was Rowan’s 50 minute dance class.

Now. In Minnesota spring break is a complete misnomer as it usually consists of sitting around inside watching a snowstorm develop outside your window. March can be one of the snowiest months there is but the Universe, God, WHOEVER took pity on us this year and we spent the majority of the week outside enjoying the 40, 50 and yes even 60 degree temps. Here’s the proof that we didn’t take a minute of it for granted…

Rowan started off the break with a princess cheerleading party, which in theory was a fun idea, but in reality was way to much princessy stimulation for this little gal on a Friday night. Cheering, we found out, is not her life's calling. More like badgering. There she completely excels.

The next event was a birthday party for our little friend and it was gorgeous outside. As you can see the warm temps bring out the plotting children in droves. What do you think they are discussing? Probably some in-depth world domination action plan.

Rowan, Ellie and their "calapillar".

Don't mess with the guy with the football. He's all kinds of tough.

Best kool-aid mustache ever. Even though it's Crystal Light. Still counts.

Showing off her first scraped knee of the season. As sure a sign of spring as seeing the first Robin of the season.

I don't have a clever caption. I just really love this picture. Insert your own pirate saying as necessary.

Rowan was allowed to stay in her jammies all morning on most of her break, although she did feel the need to fancify herself with lovely plastic jeweled accessories.

Last Thursday it happened. We were at a restaurant and the waitress asked us what "the girls" wanted to drink. And with this as the scene earlier in the day I really couldn't blame her, so we took action.

And choppity-chopped a good majority of his hair off.

At the beginning of break Rowan could barely last a block on her trike but by this weekend she was a mad pedaler- challenging all of us to "just try to beat" her.

Keaton (well, I can only assume this giant BOY with the short hair is Keaton) got re-aquainted with his old pal, the Swing.

And Rowan J practiced pumping like the big girls do.

It was a fun, relaxing week. For them. This new version of spring break that doesn't include beer bongs or wild parties will take some getting used to for me. Not that I would know anything about beer bongs. Or keg stands. NO SIREY.

Self Portrait, chalk.

It was especially good for Rowan. Giving her a nice breather from: get dressed, eat your food, hurry up, yes you need socks, no you can’t have five more minutes, we’re late, we’re late, we’re late! She needed that break, and so did we. An overall excellent start to spring. Let’s keep the momentum going and the temperatures up.

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Some things I learned this week…

*That I can walkerjoggy 15 miles+ in 5 days and live to blog the tale.

* That stretching before running is not, as I previously thought, “for hippies” (no matter that I actually aspire to BE a hippie). Stretching is in fact, something you should probably do before jumping into an exercise regimen after 5 months of sitting on your ass, especially if you don’t like to ask your husband to please help you sit down on the toilet so you can pee.

*That those people who tell you that exercise rejuvenates and energizes you? LIARS TELLING LYING LIES. Exercise makes you tired, dummy. Especially exercise at 6am. I am ready for a nap by Sesame Street.

*That rolling your ass out of bed at 5:55am does not a morning person make. Sure, I do OK once I’m out on the pavement but that’s only because there is no one out there for me to yell at. Well. Except Luna, and she does get a few “OH MY GOD QUIT SNIFFING AND PEE ALREADY” comments but then she just looks up at me like “you’re the dumbass who dragged me off my fluffy pillow and brought me out here. I cannot pee on command. The sniffing is integral. Deal with it.”

*That my husband’s teeth are not made out of titanium or some other genetically altered and enhanced super matter. There was  a period during Bill’s late teens and twenties when he didn’t go to the dentist for nine years. NINE. YEARS. And he is moderately lazy about his dental health, though he had never had so much as a cavity. I finally made him an appointment along with my own and brought him there by knifepoint. I have gone to the dentist every six months for the majority of my life. Guess who walked out of their appointment with 2 cavities. ME. I DID. UN. FAIR. Didn’t they know that I had to remind this man to brush his teeth before he kissed me? WHERE IS THE DENTIST VERSION OF WALKER ,TEXAS RANGER? I wanted justice, dammit.

That was about three or so years ago and Bill has dutifully gone for his cleaning every six months since, not for the good of his oral hygiene, but to rub it in my face that his teeth are invincible masses of all powerful super-bone. Until now, that is. Yesterday Rowan, Bill and I went for our cleanings and guess which one of us has not one, not Two, Not Three, BUT FOUR cavities? That’s right. I could be the bigger person and console the loss of his fake super power of non-cavitious teeth but instead I’m going to do this: HAHAHAHAHAHA.

*That a 30 degree jump in temperature can make all the difference. Feeling the warm sun on the top of my head and my arms just brings life back into me. It happens every spring but never fails to catch me by surprise. I know it’s just a teaser and the warm temps are not here to stay, but still. Hope. And walks. And playgrounds. And Tricycles.

*That Keaton can in fact, poop in the potty. He has been gung-fricken-ho about wearing his big boy underoos and pees in the potty by himself, with few accidents (when at home). Still though, he would hide behind the chair to take a dump, and even when we asked him if he was pooping he would answer with a red-faced NOPE! Then he’d walk into the bathroom and announce he needed to sit on the potty only to discover the poop in his underwear. We laughed it off, which you can do with boys’ underwear because it is thick and contains poo so much better than girls’ princess/Dora/Barbie/pony unders, where the crapola gets smooshed and leaks out the leg holes and onto the carpet and WAIT? Where is everyone going? Don’t you want to know these awesome and TOTALLY USEFUL potty training details? No? FINE. Just know that if your girl isn’t picky buy her boys’ underwear to start with.

What did I learn again? Oh, yes. The poop. In the potty. Twice this week Keaton walked into the bathroom, pushed his step stool up to the potty, disrobed his bottom and pooped. Well, I can only assume that’s what happened because he didn’t even tell me, just showed me the finished product with much pride and elation. After approximately 37 poops in his underpants we were beginning to think he wasn’t as ready for undies as we (and he) thought he was, but these 2, um, well, dumps, have given me hope.

*That Rowan has a morbid tendency in her songwriting skills:

“Mom!”

“Yep?”

“I wrote a song for you.”

“Ooo, OK. Let’s hear it.”

“There were three jellyfish swimming in the pond, three jellyfiiiiiiiish swimming in the pond…and then a shark came and bited their heads off! OH NO! Then there were no jellyfish, swimming in the pond, no jellyfiiiish swimming in the pond.

Do you like it!”

“Um. Wow. Yeah. Great song. Especially the part about the shark.”

“I know. Thanks.”

*That the days are getting longer and being up, putting one foot in front of the other, while watching the sky go from navy to violet to magenta is maybe almost worth the 6am price tag.

I said ALMOST.

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Mostly Wordless Wednesday: Accessorizing Edition

Although the 1/32nd of Irish in me wanted to start the day off with some Bailey’s in my coffee, the rest of me, mostly the stupid peasant-stock German part, realized there were chores to be done and youngins to be tended to. So. No celebrating leprechauns and pots of gold for me, but Happy St. Patrick’s Day to all the Irish celebrating their national drinking holiday.

Now, since I didn’t even tell the kids today was St. Patrick’s Day (am a lazy, terrible mother who didn’t want to have to answer questions about where their presents were because to my kids anything that ends in a formal “Day” means they are entitled to a bag of miscellaneous crap) I will leave you with the photos of Keaton’s outfit yesterday.

The outfit he picked out all by himself.

Pretty nice, no? I mean- he matched his Baby Legs to the KISS shirt his Uncle DCFI gave him in an attempt to man him up, and even completed the rock ‘n roll look by choosing underoos with flaming guitars on them. It wasn’t enough though. After I helped him put it on he said “HEY! WHERE MY BRETTE?!” And after offering him the barrette box he chose to accessorize with the pink and green accent bow.

A bold but wise choice.

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In the AM

You guys? I got up at 5:40 this morning. ON PURPOSE. Well, I was supposed to get up at 6am on purpose but I had a really weird dream about being caught in a snowstorm so when I woke up with a start, I just stayed awake because my brain has a nasty little habit of picking up right where it leaves off in the nightmare department and I really didn’t want to see the conclusion to Keaton being sucked into a giant snow tornado that I’m pretty sure had fangs.

So. Yeah. 5:40am.

I made a deal with myself that to get through the drab of winter I could indulge in olives and cheese and whatever else would carry me through the months of January and February all whilst sitting squarely on my ass. This is a little game I play with myself every winter and every spring I have to pay the price. Last year was no big deal because I breastfed until March and I am one of those assholes who can eat whatever they want while they’re nursing, without gaining anything. I don’t apologize for this. I was excruciatingly nauseated for the entirety of both of my pregnancies so this was owed to me. OWED, I say.

This year though, I was sadly NOT breastfeeding and March 15 was the date I picked to start the pay back. By running. At 6am. And when I say running, I mean that at some point down the road I expect this to turn into a sort of recognizable run. Right now it’s more of a joggerwalky sort of thing that results in a lot of “OK, I will speed up from this fire hydrant to that street light, and then Dear God I will walk the next half mile” or “Luna, you look so tired, maybe we should slow down. Ease you into this.” and “Oh I think she has to go to the bathroom, I should probably stop so she can figure out a primo spot for her poop. I know how important that is to her.” What can I say? It was my first day. I have a few kinks to work out.

So I know at least a few people are laughing at this (I can hear you, family members) because they know how thoroughly UN-MORNING I am. I only do mornings because my children are evil dictators and society warns us that if we don’t like mornings we will go nowhere in life. Morning people rule the world and everyone else is a lazy good-fer-nothing. So I usually get up at the respectable but not too early 7:15. Ish. But in order to complete the 3 mile run I have to give myself about an hour. I’ve tried saving my work-out routines for the end of the day but I can never keep it up. There is always something we want to do as a family and excuse this and procrastinate that. What it really comes down to is that by the time Bill gets home I am exhausted and the last thing I want to do is run because I honestly feel like I’ve been running all day. I can do it. I have done it. But I feel like I want to try this early bird time out for a while to see if it works better.

So out I went. I sort of forgot that with the daylight saving business it would be pitch black for the duration of my time out there, but when I walked out my front door at 6:03 (AM, have I mentioned the AM part yet?) and looked up and saw stars, with Rufus Wainwright crooning “Halleluia” in my ear, I felt really good. A little scared that a psychopath/murderer was waiting to drag me off the path into the woods to his underground lair- but still, good. And as I put one foot in front of the other, and adjusted to the 40 degree temp, I almost started enjoying myself.

There were (presumably) other moms out there, running in pairs for safety or companionship (I, apparently, live in the danger zone with only my yappy canine for protection). They, like me, are getting some exercise and time to themselves before the demands of the day kick in. Some had fancy head lights (literally, lights on their head) for running in the dark, all had fancy spandex pants and thermal sweatshirts with reflectors. I had on my winter coat and some yoga pants and Bill lovingly pointed out to me when I got home if any of the other joggers were concerned I was a mugging victim running down the street. Or some sort of exercising hobo perhaps. I told him he is not allowed to make eye contact with me that early in the morning, much less speak to me. ASSHOLE.

For now I promise I will purchase some better looking running clothes so as not to cause a distraction to the other people on the trail, I wouldn’t want to cause a gawker slow-down, but I’m waiting until I lose a block of cheese or two. Other than that, what can I say? Here we are. At the beginning. Of warmer weather, and hopefully, a healthier me.

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Let me tell you some things

Within a week or so of each other, our washing machine, Bill’s car and our DVD player crapped out. YAY! I fucking love the Rule of Three, don’t you? The washing machine was a pain in the ass but ended up being an easy fix that only set us back $125, which, yeah, not great but better than having to research, pick-out, wait for delivery and pay mucho dallores for a brand spanking new one. And you know me. There would be two identical washers, one with a price of $650 and one for $400 and I would HAVE to pick the expensive one because it is OBVIOUSLY superior. It’s price tag says so. I don’t know though… I hate spending money on things I need. I much prefer to dole out hundreds of dollars for diapers that my son shits in (they’re so pretty, Internet!).

(Speaking of poopy diapers, we’ve been using cloth wipes because, well, it just makes sense to do it that way when you have a cloth diaper otherwise you have a pile of dirty disposable wipes that you have to pick off the diaper and throw away and then poop gets on your fingers {EW} and the cloth ones can just be tossed in the bin with the diapers. Makes sense. We’ve been using Bumgenius Bottom Cleaner or something similar and it works pretty well, but Keaton is, well… he’s a pooper. He poops like a million times a day (His pediatrician says this is normal. I told her she can tell me it’s normal when SHE has to change poopy diapers all day. She said, “Yeah, I have one year old twins”. And then I shut my mouth.) Anyway we were going through the spray pretty fast and it was kind of a pain so when I saw a solution you mix with water to make cloth wipes wet and work like disposables, little heart bubbles popped out of my head and I just knew this product and I were meant to live a long and happy life together. Only Keaton’s butt got in the way of our love affair by turning BRIGHT ASS RED when I used it. FROWNY FACE. Maybe I just need to dilute it more? Or perhaps I’m in denial? I don’t remember what the point of this really long parentheses was anymore so here- let me end it for you.)

Where were we!

Ah, yes. The car. So on Thursday we fixed the washing machine and on Friday Bill’s car broke down 2 blocks from the Children’s Museum, where the kids and I were waiting for him. Bill commutes to Minneapolis for work which on a good day takes 40-ish minutes and on a bad day takes two hours. He drives a ’98 Mercury Tracer because it gets great gas mileage and was practically free and he got to name it something really obnoxious, which I can’t even remember right now…something about green lightning, maybe? Whatever. Giving stupid names to things makes this guy super happy and if you ever ask him what kind of car he drives he will always be sure to let you know this particular model is a “sport” making it all kinds of fancy. And it has a spoiler. So.

The Green Lightening Sport of Spoilerness broke down in the middle of downtown St. Paul. It stalled out while he was at a stoplight and wouldn’t turn back on and Bill is all “Wahhhht?” and two homeless men come bounding out of nowhere and pushed the car two blocks to a place where Bill could leave it until the tow came. Funny how people can surprise you after you think you’ve got them all figured out. I mean, based on what Bill was driving they probably deduced he wouldn’t be able to offer them crisp one hundred dollar bills for their help but they did it anyway, and it was so kind and when you constantly feel like the human race is [PESSIMIST ALERT] rapidly deteriorating, moments like these give you (read: me) hope.

We had it towed to a mechanic that Bill’s dad has used for years and highly recommended. When we received the call that it was the timing belt, a $35.00 part, we were relieved. That is, until they told us that with time and labor the estimated cost would be $1,600.00. It’s the location of the belt, they explained, that inflated the cost so high. Very time intensive stuff.

For one? The car is not WORTH $1600. For two? REALLY? $1600? I do not buy it. We are so damn lucky that Bill’s dad is good with cars because he told us he’d give it a try and 3-4 hours later he had fixed it for under $150. Now I understand the mechanic has to earn a living wage but when an amateur can do the fix in a few hours for a FRACTION of the cost I think that $1600 price tag is a SMIDGEN high.

Then our DVD player broke. This is not the end of the world as Bill and I refuse to spend large sums of money on electronics because we are holding out for the glorious day when we can get Apple TV. This day is far off in the future so to bide our time we buy these crappy $40.00 DVD players at target that need to be replaced at least every other year. It just so happened it broke right after these two other things crapped out and CAN WE BE DONE NOW, UNIVERSE? Instead of purchasing a new one we dug out our old DVD/VCR combo which is an absolute behemoth and in no way respectably fits by our TV but EH. Apple TV 2015, here we come! We can make it a few more years, right?

What else can I tell you!

I was feeling a little down one night last week so I challenged Rowan to a game of Wii bowling because, well, winning makes me feel better even if it is against a 30 pound preschooler. What can I say? Am scruple free! Then you know what happened? SHE BEAT ME. Her own mother. The kid picked up one pin spares like it was nobody’s bidness! I was too impressed to be a sore loser. I mean, it was only the second time she played and I can TOTALLY take credit for that shit. I, Christina Jo Gunter, bred a Wii bowling prodigy. If I ever feel I’ve failed as a mother, I need look no further than this.

Her technique was truly impressive. Never allowing to be told how to do something, Rowan came up with her own way of winding up and releasing the ball and I'm not too proud to say that I attempted her way after she trounced me. It didn't work. Must be a low-center-of-gravity thing. Or I just suck.

Aaaaand, here she is shaking her butt at me. I would get mad but that whole sore winner thing comes straight from my genetic code so I could do nothing but watch.

In Keaton news, his interest in the potty bounced back this week. Every morning I ask if he wants to wear big boy unders or a diaper, not pressuring him and respecting whatever choice he makes. Every day this week he chose the underoos and has peed in the potty pretty consistently. He has also pooped on my floor pretty consistently, but let’s not nit-pick when progress is being made. He gets so so excited when he pees, still preferring to use the big potty as opposed to the little one and when he tries but can’t go he chirps, “But it was a good try though, CAN I HAVE A STICKER? OR A LITTLE TREAT, MAYBE?!” And I have to dash his hopes because if I’ve learned anything from this child it is that he will exploit every kindness I grant him.

TA-DA! See these underwear?

They are my ticket to the spoils of the treat jar.

Surprised and unprepared by his revived potty interest, I was completely unprepared as far as rewards go. I had a few potty stickers to hand out but where I would maybe give an M&M or two for a job well done, all I had in the house were big suckers and taffy. He’s not going to be pleased with reality when I finally make it to Target and his rewards get grossly downsized.

And…I think that’s it! I am now impatiently awaiting my niece to come out of the cooker (AKA: my sister) so I can snuggle her and spoil her and sniff her wee little baby head and then give her back when she cries. The last two babies in the family have been mine, the baby before being Ellie, who is now a giant 7 and a half year old and she came along before I really appreciated just how sweet it is to hand a crying miracle of life back to it’s mother for her to deal with. So, yes, I’m very excited to get to be an auntie again.

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