The Circle of Life

While snuggling on the couch with my sick three year old, I saw my cat prance into the living room, tail held high. This particular cat, Buster, is almost 15 years old, and a whopping 20 pounds. He does not prance, as a general rule. It could only mean one thing: Buster caught a mouse.

Upon closer inspection, I could see the telltale feet dangling from his mouth. My son, thoroughly engrossed in Toy Story 2, didn't realize that the victorious hunter had brought in the kill, and I wanted to keep it that way. Quickly, before he caught on, I scooted to the kitchen, looking for anything I could use to get the mouse corpse out of my house. Out of the corner of my eye, I could still see the cat, sitting contentedly with the prize in his mouth. He must have seen me looking, because he opened his mouth and dropped the mouse. The mouse shook convulsively, and flipped itself over.

Oh my God, it wasn't dead.

Since my son was still oblivious (thank you, Pixar!), I grabbed the phone and dialed my husband's work number. "There'samouseandhe'sstillaliveandIneedtogethimoutbeforeGriffseeswhatshouldIdo?" I hissed into the phone. My poor husband. As I watched in horror, the little mouse crawled pitifully on the floor, clawing frantically with it's little front paws, back end dragging uselessly behind it.

"Ohmigodit'sparalyzedwhatdoIdowhatdoIdowhatdoIdo?!"

I remembered seeing an empty yogurt container that my husband had washed out. I grabbed it, thinking I could use it to corral the poor thing. I imagined that one quick scoop would do the trick, but I was not bargaining on the paraplegic mouse's courage and will to live. Desperately trying to be casual and inconspicuous, I used the yogurt container to gently lift the mouse, only to have him flip himself out with the strength and grace of an underage Chinese gymnast. We repeated the sequence several times, and each time the mouse eluded me. It didn't help that I was using one hand to hold the phone to my ear, chanting "Ohmigodohmigodohmigod" into the receiver, as though keeping my husband on the phone would somehow make things easier.

Finally, with a score of 4-0 in favor of the mouse, I put the phone down and used the lid to help keep the poor thing inside. Yes! Somehow, my son, in the narcotic haze of Tylenol and Buzz Lightyear, was still unaware of the epic struggle unfolding to his left. I felt the sweet relief of victory, and then the dread returned.

What the hell do I do with a half-dead mouse in a yogurt container?

Tom and Jerry-esque visions danced in my head. Toilet flush? Too big. Knife? Uh, no. Strap him to a dynamite rocket and send him to the moon? The boy would probably notice. In the end, with no other ideas and not a lot of time, I took the cowards way out. I took the most courageous mouse the world has ever seen, and tossed him into a snowbank. Fare thee well, little mouse.

I am going straight to hell.

Yet ANOTHER Sick Day

Our boy is currently snuggling on my lap under a blanket, watching Toy Story 2 for the 12th time in 3 days. He is fever-free this morning, after two days of high temps and an awful, deep, painful-sounding cough. Just in time for the weekend.

It has been about six weeks since I returned to work after having the baby. At least one day of each of those weeks, I received a call from day care to come and pick up one child or the other. Yes, we have had six weeks of everything from runny nose to technicolor flu. Today is the first day of February, and I have already used exactly half of the sick time I am allotted for the year.

Thursday, when I received the most recent call, my single co-worker asked me "Do you get five days of sick time for your kids, and then five for yourself, too?" Um, no. I just get the same 5 days that everyone else does. "That sucks," she said, matter of factly, turning back to her computer. Why yes, co-worker, it does.

I don't think that as a mom, I should have any special privileges over anyone else. Unfortunately, life happens, and things move forward, whether my kids are sick or well. I would just love it if my company (a very large, global company, with lots of resources) would seriously look into some work from home options. I would not want to work at home every day, as I enjoy leaving my house and interacting with people who are able to drive, and don't need my assistance to wipe their nose. But every once in a while, it would be nice to have the flexibility to continue to be productive, even though I am not at me desk.

While my son is watching Horton Hears a Who, or taking a nap, I could be logged in to our network, cleaning up files and taking care of the things that I am not able to complete at the office due to the constantly ringing phone and interminable e-mail interruptions. Those little things that are not necessarily high priority until they build up to the point of needing to schedule an entire day to clean up the backlog. I would be contributing to the forward momentum of our company, but still able to get my son his juice boxes and take his temperature.

My company has done many surveys about the viability of work from home options, and inquires about the interest level from the staff. Like most large, global companies, the wheels of progress turn slowly sometimes. I am hoping that with this awful economy, the wheels might spin a bit faster as we all look for ways to streamline costs, without sacrificing market share. I am keeping my fingers crossed, but I'm certainly not holding my breath.

Really, I'm just happy that our peanut is feeling better.

Let's Be Friends

Yesterday we had our semi-annual parent-teacher conference at my son's daycare. It's always nice to get some perspective on your kids from folks who work with pre-schoolers on a daily basis. Our talk reinforced a lot of things we already knew, but emphasized some things we take for granted. "He's so outgoing and social!" the teacher exclaimed more than once.

It's true that our boy is a social butterfly. He loves to laugh and sing, and he loves to have fun with the other kids at school. When I come in for drop off or pick up times, I love to see him zipping around the room with the other little boys, playing with cars or dinosaurs or whatever catches their fancy that day. I stand, unobserved, and watch him, until one of the kids inevitably catches sight of me.

"Griffin, your mommy's here!"

Suddenly, I am surrounded by two and three year olds, holding things up for my inspection, yelling out strange and thought provoking comments that I'm sure make perfect sense to the other knee high peanuts in the room, but are unintelligible to me. As I do with my own child, I treat them all to smiles and "Wow"s. Then it's time to begin the process of saying goodbye.

The favorite goodbye in my memory went like this: Four little boys, standing in a solemn circle, high fiving each other and redistributing matchbox cars. When the high fives were complete, my son went back around the circle, giving each little boy a gigantic hug. It is one of the cutest things I've ever witnessed.

I love their friendships, because they are relatively easy and uncomplicated. They are too young for the refined social cruelty of pre-teen relationships. That comes later. Tonight, when I asked my son about a particular boy at school, his response was "He's my friend. He makes funny noises, and I laugh."

Sometimes, it's just that simple.

Meltdown Man

Our son is generally a pretty sunny kid, and as well-behaved as a pre-schooler can be. However, like all kids, he has his limits, particularly when he's tired. With the flip of a switch, my little sweetie is gone, and Meltdown Man appears.


Where my little darling is agreeable, Meltdown Man is inconsolable. Where my little angel gives me smiles and cuddles, Meltdown Man tells me "You're not my friend anymore!" Where my little peanut can stand upright on his own two feet, Meltdown Man prefers to stretch flat on the floor, or, the weapon on peaceful resistors everywhere, to "go limp".


I never know quite where or when Meltdown Man will make an appearance. His most recent cameo was yesterday, at the daycare dropoff. With the bitter cold, I scooted my little precious inside the daycare doors first, then scooted back to the car to get the baby. In the 30 seconds it took me to get from the car to the door, Meltdown Man showed up.


This instance was prompted by the darn stupid gloves. My son loves to dress up, with different hats and accessories to suit whatever, or whoever, he happens to be at a given time. Today, he did not want to take his gloves off and put them in his cubby, he wanted to wear them into the room to play. As a daycare mom, I've learned the hard way that if it's not in the cubby, properly labelled and put away, you can consider it donated to the daycare. When I said "no way", I got my first hint that Meltdown Man was near.


"Whhhyyyyy?"


When the no was upheld, all hell broke loose. Crying, wailing, burying his head into my leg, and circling it with his arms. Tears, choking sobs, the repeated wail of "But I waaaant to!" Meltdown Man all the way. I was able to navigate down the hallway with the baby in my arms and Meltdown man stuck to my leg, and once we arrived in the classroom, the teachers were able to help me remove him, and distract him with other things. The other children stopped and stared, wide eyed in amazement, at my wailing son.

By the time I got the baby settled in her classroom, Meltdown Man was gone, leaving a wet-eyed but contented boy behind. I kissed my precious angel goodbye, and said a silent thank you that the appearance of the other guy was brief this time. I know he's biding his time somewhere, waiting to strike again, but I do love the moments when Meltdown Man has gone, and my boy is just my boy again.

Here's What Happened This Weekend:

1. Our son went to New Hampshire for the weekend to spend time with his grandparents. This was primarily because my husband was planning on working all weekend, and trying to juggle both kids alone is stressful, to say the least.

2. The server at my husband's company went down for maintenance at 11 am Saturday, which pretty much ended the "work through the weekend" plan.

3. Our new weekend project became opening as many new levels and characters as possible in our Mario Kart game (aka Poppy Racing). That's right, my husband and I spent a solid 6 hours playing the Wii, uttering things like "Suck on that!" and "Papa brought the thunder!" while passing the baby back and forth. I won't lie, it was awesome.

4. Oh yeah, I got the taxes done. Woot!

Admitting Defeat

I have finally admitted defeat. My beautiful, personal, handwritten thank you cards have lurked half-completed on my hutch for almost exactly a month. I am sending out the less personal, slightly tacky e-thank you cards instead. After all, it's much tackier to send your Christmas thank you's in July, right?

Do Not Make Eye Contact!

The first time my husband and I spent a night away from our son, he was 6 months old. We left him with my parents for an overnight getaway, and like any good mom, I left a schedule, and a list of instructions, tips and tricks for managing our precious baby. After all, babies are like Gremlins, you need to pay close attention to the care and feeding, lest you wind up with a little monster! It is a list that will forever live in infamy, and something my parents chuckle heartily over every time it comes up. The list made mention of the number one rule of night feedings with a 6 month old: DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT!

That one line of instruction had my parents rolling on the floor laughing. Who thinks of these things, right? Well, moms of 6 month old babies, for one. I still think this is more than just a family in-joke. The rule is there for a reason!

I don't imagine my baby to be a mini-Tom Cruise, who expects his minions to avert their eyes and back away slowly should he deign to enter a room. Not at all! The reason I live by that rule is because babies love to watch faces, and take their social cues from the way their caretakers react. If you sneak in to feed a baby in the middle of the night, and smile and coo and (god forbid) MAKE EYE CONTACT, the baby is going to think it's time to wake up and play, not time to sleep. Thus, the rule of no eye contact was born.

Just this morning, our little girl woke up at 3:45 in the morning. She is getting much more comfortable with her voice, and the sounds she can make, and this morning she was doing what I call the "Happy Honk", an excited scream that means she's ready for playtime. I peeked at her through my lashes, careful not to open my eyes, and there she was, staring up at me with her big blue eyes and a huge smile, just waiting for me to smile back. What did I do? I'll tell you what I did not do: EYE CONTACT!

Nope, I rubbed her back and snuggled her, and after a few more honks she gave up and went back to sleep. Thank goodness, because with the three year old visiting the grandparents this weekend, I was really hoping for a chance to sleep in a bit. Once again, the rule of eye contact was upheld!

I know my parents still think the no eye contact rule is hilarious, and that's fine. Our baby is still a smidge too young for an overnight at Grammy's right now, anyway. But we'll see who gets the last laugh when our princess does start honking at 2 AM on her first overnight. If you disregard the rule, and the Gremlin comes out, you can't say I didn't warn you!

Belated Inauguration Day Thoughts

I was very heavily invested in this year's Presidential election. It played out over the course of my maternity leave, and I voraciously read and watched anything and everything about the election, the candidates, everything. In our state, early voting is encouraged, and by mid-October, my vote was already cast for Barack Obama. On Election Night (well, the next morning, really) I cried when I learned that my candidate had won. As I told my mother -in-law, I am proud that our kids will grow up in a country where having a black president would be "no big deal", because the first president they would truly remember is BO. They will never really understand how big a deal this is for so many Americans, and I think that is wonderful.

Having said that, you could not get me to DC with a 10 foot pole! Hearing about the millions of people descending on the already packed city makes me shiver inside. People in our area chartered buses to go down and celebrate this historic occasion, and I know they're not alone. I wish them well, and hope that they find a decently priced room and a reasonably priced meal, and are not stuck on their bus eating unmicrowaved wheat germ pitas (they are Vermonters, after all).

Like the Superbowl and New Year's Eve in Times Square, the Inauguration is an event best experienced at a distance, preferably in the comfort of your own home. You can see better, you can hear better, and the only person yapping your ear off and squishing you is your 3 year old.

How did I spend this historic day? At work, along with a large majority of Americans. My husband's company had viewing rooms set up for employees to watch, and doughnuts to celebrate the historic event. My company took the pretty impressive step of removing the ban on streaming video placed on all work computers, and allowing employees to watch the inauguration on CNN.com.

Unfortunately, millions of Americans were watching on CNN.com, and the CNN Live Feed was not functioning well with the heavy demand. My coworker and I saw "I, Barack Hussein Obama" , and then the frozen image of BO, right hand raised, huge grin on his face, frozen like a screen saver for the next 10 minutes. In some ways, that says it all.

With today's technology and news cycles, not only will we be able to watch the highlights later on, we can watch them until we're absolutely sick to death of them. Maybe it will be a good thing for me to watch until I'm sick to death, because then, like my kids, I will get over the fact of this momentous, historic occasion, and it will become no big deal that today our world has changed for the better.

Resolution!

Last week, I came to a major decision. After 9 months of pregnancy, and 3 months of newborn madness, I am putting my foot down.

NO MORE PONY TAILS!

I am not one of those girls whose hair looks fantastic with no maintenance. Without some sort of heat and styling, my hair settles into the frizzy no man's land between straight and wavy. For months now, I've been resorting to the busy mom's cure all: my trusty rubber band.

Well, forget that! In the middle of our family's chaos, I am reclaiming 20 minutes of "me" time. If putting myself together is wrong, I don't want to be right! Call me selfish, call me vain, but damn it feels good!

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful :)

For Fun

Cuties!

Baby Carnivore!

Happy Birthday, MLK!

"And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.”

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today!"

~Martin Luther King, Jr.

Ba-Rack O-BAAA-Ma

The daycare center where we send our kids is a terrific facility, with a huge focus on learning. In fact, when my son was still one or two, they taught him the names of our current political leaders. I have to admit, despite my democratic leanings, there is something adorable about the name "Condoleeza Rice" when it's being said in a sweet two-year-old voice.

However, nothing prepared me for the way Barack Obama has captured my son's imagination. Not for his charm, charisma, passion or historic significance, merely for the syllables that make up his name. Ba-Rack O-BAAA-Ma. Try it, it really is fun.

As a result of his fascinating name, Barack Obama has been the star in some of our son's more recent stream of consciousness ramblings. For example, on Sunday, Barack Obama is going to come to our house and go snowmobiling on a big red snowmobile with our son. Then he is going to ride in his super fast red race car. Then they will play tractors and dinosaurs together. In my son's imaginary life, The President Elect is a cross between James Bond and John Deere.

I am extending an open invitation to Mr. Obama. If you can find the time in your busy inaugural schedule, fly Air Force One up to Burlington International Airport and enjoy a Vermont-style welcome from our son. Just give a call first, as we have a strict, no-visitors-during-naptime policy.

"Why Do You Still Look Pregnant?"

This is the subject line of an e-mail I received from Babycenter.com. Is this a rhetorical question?

If you really want an answer, Babycenter.com, I will tell you.

Yes, it's been four months since I had my daughter. Over the course of my 3 month maternity leave, here is the breakdown of how my time was spent:

50% nursing, getting ready to nurse, cleaning up after nursing
10% changing diapers, disposing of diapers, smelling diapers
8% sleeping (ah, sleeping)
8% playing with, cuddling and snuggling my son
7% travelling in the car, with both kids and a dog, to visit out of state family
7% internet shopping and gift wrapping for the holidays
3% eating (regular food)
3% eating (holiday goodies!)
2% cleaning my house
1% showering
1% talking to my husband

In the few weeks since I've been back at work, here is a breakdown of my time:

35% working
15% nursing, getting ready to nurse, cleaning up after nursing
10% pumping milk for bottles
8% putting my son back in bed after lights out
6% sleeping (ah, sleeping)
6% playing with, cuddling and snuggling with my son
6% travelling back and forth between work, home and daycare
4% eating
4% showering
2% cleaning my house
2% washing bottles
2% talking to my husband

So, looking at that list, Babycenter.com, where do you propose I insert a workout? Which of these categories are overly padded? Time with my kids, earning money to help support our family? Oh wait, what about my virtually nonexistent time with my husband? I mean, he's expendable, right? And by inserting a workout, I'll be sure to look "hot" when he divorces me, right?

Well, you know what Babycenter.com? I don't need your judgement, and your rude e-mails. I mean, I know I subscribed to your service, but haven't we crossed the line into harassment? I don't need this kind of personal attack!

On second thought, keep 'em coming, Babycenter.com. I am not Heidi Klum. I will not be walking the runway in supermodel form a mere 8 days after my third child. And I'm fine with that. I'd rather have my 15 minutes of snuggling with my little boy in the morning than a smoking ass any day.

Author's note: After reading the actual e-mail, not just the subject line, I realize that your intention was to be supportive, Babycenter.com. However, I would STRONGLY urge you to rethink your opener. Can we still be friends?

Sick Day

As per usual, we have managed to squeeze a lifetime of craziness into a period of days. For the second time in a week, I am home with one of my children. Last week, our little boy was caught in a tidal wave of germs that swept our daycare center, and spent 2 miserable days with the flu. Yesterday, our baby was sent home with a fever and a severe case of the crankies. So today, in keeping with our center's germ policy, and my husband's work schedule, I am home with the baby.

I admit that when I was a young and single girl, I was tremendously resentful of all the time the resident moms would take off. "Their kids are sick again?" I would think incredulously, annoyed that my schedule would need to be rearranged once more to accommodate the needs of someone else's family. That makes me sound awful, I'm sure, but I have always been lucky enough to be healthy. I rarely got sick in those days, and used my own sick time for the occasional "mental health day" when I knew it wouldn't put anybody out. It was beyond me why a coworker should get "extra" time off, when they inevitably caught whatever it was their kids had.

Now the shoe is on the other foot, the worm has turned, insert your cliche here. I am the mom having whispered, tense conversations with her husband about who will be the one to approach their boss about leaving early. I am the mom who's precious sick days are saved for those times when my kids are sick, leaving me to go to work armed with Lysol, Purell and tissues if I should catch it next. I am the mom receiving laser beams of resentment from my single co-worker, who's forced "It's fine" tells me exactly where she stands. I am the mom, and I finally get it.

Honestly, my husband and I are a lot luckier than some. We both work for companies that actually give us sick time. My husband's job allows him to work from home if necessary. My boss is the mom of 2 grown sons who has been in my shoes before, and who is understanding of the needs of 2 small kids. It still doesn't make the task of telling said boss that you need to take another day off any easier, but at least I know I can probably work something out.

Now the hard part of asking for time off is over, and the even harder part of taking care of a sick baby is under way. If a day of snuggling, kisses and naps will cure her, I expect we'll all be back on schedule tomorrow.

Balancing Act

My husband and I are similar in many ways, but we are not identical. We have enough differences in opinion and personality to keep just the right amount of friction in our relationship. Our parenting styles work in a similar way. We talk about and agree upon all of the big decisions, but the way we handle the little things reflects our differences. Fortunately, like any good team, we work together to cover our weaknesses, and try to assign the best parent for any given job.

Example 1: PlayDoh. I love PlayDoh, don't get me wrong. It's fun, it smells delicious, and there's something decadent about squishing it through a Fun Factory and watching it turn into spaghetti right before your eyes. However, I am a little...strict about PlayDoh rules and regulations. PlayDoh colors should NEVER be mixed together, and that includes removing every bit of one color from the Fun Factory before jamming another color in there. I am not the right person for a three year old to play PlayDoh with.

My husband, on the other hand, will watch the color-mixing carnage with a smile and encouragement. When it's all over, he happily rolls the various grayish balls back into their tubes without a shudder or a whimper. He is a stronger man than I.

Example 2: Crying. I have a much higher tolerance for crying than my husband. It upsets him when are kids cry for any extended period of time. He is a "fixer", and if he can't calm them quickly, he gets agitated himself and has to walk away. When our daughter first came home, she would have a nightly "fussy period" that just about drove him over the edge. In that time, I stepped in and did most of the swaying, shushing and whatnot, until she finally conked out.

Though most of the crying duty is relegated to me, I have my own breaking point. My husband knows when I hit my limit, and steps in to use our ultimate secret weapon for a crying baby: the car seat.

Example 3: Roughhousing. I was never a particularly rough and tumble kid (ie, a boy), so it is mystifying to me when my son wants to be running, jumping, flopping, crawling, you name it, all over the house. This is definitely my husband's department. I watch with visions of broken bones and poked out eyes, but so far all body parts are intact, and we've yet to have a concussion.

This category also includes jungle gyms/indoor gyms. While our little guy was too small to go through on his own, my husband was right behind him, squeezing his adult body into colorful plastic tubes designed for grade school kids. Mommy does not do that.

Example 4: Bathtime. Since my son was born, bathtime has been my responsibility. When he was very small, he would come into the tub with me, and we would splash around together. Our babies are much more tolerant of water when Mommy is there too. As he got older, I was the one who could wash his hair without soap in his eyes, and tears.

Now that our daughter is here, my husband has taken over my son's tub duty, and he's doing a great job. Does this mean that soon I'll be mixing PlayDoh colors willy-nilly? Don't count on it. But maybe the next time our son is playing on the jungle gym, I'll let my husband hold the baby, and I'll swing on the monkey bars with our little monkey.

Telling It Like It Is

An old friend stopped by to visit us for the first time since our daughter was born. My son handled the introduction for us.

Friend: Who is this?

Son: That is my sister. She came out my mommy's belly. She drinks milk from her nipples.

Friend: Oh...that's nice. **awkward silence**

Parents: **Gape-mouth surprise**

Well, at least he's listening when we answer the questions he asks.

Carpooling

After a few harrowing mornings of stress and mishaps (like when my husband nicely had the coffee ready to go with a touch of a button, and I stumbled down, bleary eyed, and poured a new pot of water into the machine, flooding our kitchen counter and floor), we seem to have settled into a new routine. We all have our roles and responsibilities, even our three year old. My husband and I have started doing what we've always vaguely talked about doing, prepping things the night before (hence the coffee disaster). Nothing like having kids to force you to be organized.

One of the things I've enjoyed most about our new routine is the carpooling. It's something we used to do when my husband and I both worked downtown, but we got out of the habit when my new job spared me the commute in. I like it for the obvious reasons, it's less expensive and better for the environment (we are Vermonters, after all!), but I also enjoy the time spent with my 3 favorite people, with no interruptions.

It's nice to drive with our little chatterbox going a mile a minute about anything and everything. It's a stream of consciousness that is often hilarious, always entertaining. Prompted occasionally by a question, he rambles on for the full 20 minute ride to daycare, sometimes getting so excited about what he's trying to say that he becomes a broken record: :"and...and...and...and...and...and". I love it. It's a great way to start my day, and a nice way to wind down after a crazy work day.

We probably won't carpool every day. As the 2nd dropoff, I am without a car all day, so no sneaking out to replace my brought from home lunch with something else (aka McDonald's). No taking advantage of those days when my very sweet boss says "it's dead, why don't you guys get out of here." Even still, when our lives are as crazy as they are, it's nice to suddenly find an extra hour of togetherness where previously there was chaos.

Overheard in Our Car This Morning

Boy: I'm going to college tomorrow.

Mom: What are you going to study?

Boy: Pancakes and waffles!

Oh Yeah, Those Thumps and Bumps?

Were this:

Parents of the Year

For the most part, I think my husband and I do parenting pretty well. We have a decent balance between laid back (mostly him) and stressed out (mostly me). Sometimes, I think we start to get cocky. Looking at our sweet, smart incredibly funny and articulate three year old, we want to take all the credit and pat ourselves on the back for a job well done. And then something like this happens...

Our son has figured out that he can get out of bed all he wants as long as he says he's "going potty". Well, 20 potty trips a night, and my husband and I are getting frazzled. How do we discipline him for getting out of bed without having adverse effects on his potty training? We are still working on a solution.

Today's naptime started out with more of the same. Promises to stay in bed, followed by the pitter patter of little feet and a slamming door. After at least 5 trips upstairs, my husband was tired of it, I was tired of it, and I think we were both thinking the same thing: just let him do his thing up there, and soon enough, he would get bored and tired and take his nap.

We willfully ignored the thumps and bumps emanating from the upstairs hallway. I could hear his little voice chattering away under his breath. I knew he was fine. After a bit, he asked my husband to come up and help him get on the potty again. At that point, it got suspiciously quiet up there. In retrospect, we should have known.

When our little devil finally came down the stairs and stood on the landing, he wasn't crying, screaming or fussing. He looked solemnly down at us until my husband said "What's all over your hands?" Oh yes, it was blood. All over both hands, his face and his pants, which were also pretty wet. My husband took him into the bathroom to wash up, trying to figure out where the blood was coming from. The tip of one of his fingers was completely gashed open.

Once the finger was bandaged, he came over to see me, and I noticed his lip was also cut, and he had a funny rash all over one side of his face. His dad came downstairs after investigating, and asked him if he'd learned a lesson about touching things he's not supposed to. Like Mommy's razor.

AAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!

The little darling noticed the razor on his last potty trip, climbed into the tub, and "shaved like daddy does". Oh my God. Of course, I retroactively started freaking out about all the things that could have happened while we sat down here, exhausted and at the end of our rope. Fortunately, the blood will wash off, the razor burn will clear up, and he'll live to get up to no good another day, thank God.

He's not the only one that's learned a lesson!

The War is Over

I'm happy to report that the battle has been won: the hunger strike is over and our daughter is drinking from the bottle at daycare. Woohoo! I am so relieved.

The first glimmer of success came on Wednesday. At the suggestion of another teacher, I brought some items of mine from home, with the idea that she would smell me, and understand that it was time to eat. While it felt a bit strange to bring a bunch of dirty laundry to daycare, perhaps to be worn by the nice ladies there, I figured it was worth a shot.

And it paid off! The little girl, wrapped in my sweater, was happily hitting the bottle. She was able to stay the whole day. As it was NYE, that meant only until 3 o'clock, but still! A whole day at day care! I knew she could do it.

Bye Bye Christmas

As of noon today, we are done with Christmas for another year. The blue bin has been repacked, the tree has been removed, the stockings are down. As much as I love the holidays, it's always a bit of a relief to have my house back. Now we just need to find homes for all of our presents!

Adios, blue bin. I'll see you in November.