Big kids

Like most toddlers, Owen is fascinated with big kids. Kids any age older than him - even Carlo who is about 3 months older than Owen - are fascinating. The thing about most kids, though, is that they don't stop to let Owen check them out, play with them how he wants. They run around and play on their own terms, as kids do. The triplets came over with Jenn on Thursday and Owen was in heaven. After about two hours of running around after them, he was so exhausted he actually grabbed Keith's hand and walked into the bedroom. He slept like a log.

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Owen and I have a Saturday-morning routine while Keith bikes: we get up, walk to Cinnamon Productions and have breakfast, then walk around the neighborhood for about 2 hours and enjoy being outside. Owen's favorite thing to do is to play with these copper statues of kids right around the restaurant. There are four different statues: one is of a father reading to two kids while sitting on a bench. The other is of two girls, one sitting on a fence holding a bouquet, the other sitting on the ground handing the other girl a flower. The third is of three boys chasing a wheel, and the fourth is of three copper statues playing hide-and-seek around some planters near another restaurant. In all cases, the kids in the statues are between 6-10 years old.

The great part is that the are life-sized, so Owen can pretend to play with them. He loves hugging them, touching their faces, high-fiving them, and sitting on the laps of the ones that are seated. Invariably he spends about 30-45 minutes every Saturday playing with the sculptures. It's adorable to watch because I know that he loves having that time with the big kids where they are suspended in motion, playing and having fun, but where Owen sees them stopped in time and can check out their faces, their hands, pretend to join in. I'm curious to know when he starts ignoring these statues and starts watching girls instead.

Boo!

I realize I'm a crappy blogger. I can blame Facebook somewhat, and also working full-time, and having a toddler, and the holidays, and trying to cook more, and getting into baking. And being obsessed with Season 1 Heroes after Owen is in bed. But I do have a few stories to share lately, so that should make for a few blog entries. I always say I'll try to be better - mostly for my sister because I think she and Jenn and Steph are the only people who read this blog (certainly Keith hasn't read it in months).

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Owen has this adorable habit lately of being unable to resist saying "boo!" when you pull his shirt over his head. When he's happy and willing to get dressed, he says "boo!" when his head pops out of the shirt.

The funniest part about it, though, is that he really can't help himself. I think it's a way he can make getting dressed fun, and I admire his if-you-can't-beat-'em-join-'em attitude because about 80% of the time he isn't happy to get dressed. The other morning he was really mad at me for interrupting his playing to get him dressed for school. He was screaming at me, swinging at me, just really pissed off. I pulled his shirt over his head and while he was hidden he was screaming at me, but when his head pulled through he said "boo!" as though it's hard-wired. Then he went back to screaming at me.

Yesterday morning while I was dressing him he bonked his hand on the dresser when he was playing with a toy and said "Oww!" and cried a bit because his hand hurt, but as soon as his head popped out of the shirt he said "Boo!". I love it.

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This morning, as usual, Owen was waking up before Keith or I were and when I opened my eyes he was looking at me and said softly, "Boo."

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I seriously wish I had a video camera going full-time, these moments are just the best.

Work for your greens

The other night, we were sitting down for dinner - Keith had situated Owen in the highchair (that we've started using again after the booster proved to be too messy) and I was finishing up putting the food on the plates. As usual, we asked Owen if he wanted what we were serving for dinner - mostly we do this to prime him so he's looking foward to what's coming, but also because we know that he's pretty firm in his opinions, and there is no use serving him something he doesn't want to eat. It's better to find out before putting a nice dinner on a plate for him that his ultimate plan for it is really just to give it to the cat or drop it in his milk.

He's been on a broccoli kick lately, and so we've been giving him broccoli whenever we can, enjoying watching him eat it while it lasts, until he refuses everything but Chicken McNuggest (yes, Erin, I do know that day is looming). So, when asked, he said "Yeah. Beebee!" meaning, yes, he wanted broccoli.

But of course, it took me a little while because the broccoli was just done, so it was a blazing inferno of molten goodness and had to cool. Owen wasn't in the mood to wait, so he started fussing. Keith said to him, "Owen do you want your broccoli?" Owen said, "Yes". Keith said, "Well, if you want your broccoli, you need to calm down."

It was almost like all motion halted in our condo - we kind of stopped and listened to the reverberation of the last sentence as it bounced off the walls and echoed in our ears. I think we both simultaneously wondered how often that combination of words is ever put together for a 20-month-old, and then we immediately thanked whatever force in the universe was responsible for our son actually liking broccoli, even for just a little while. The kid eats something green sometimes. For that, I give thanks.

(It really helps make me feel better on those far-more-numerous nights when all he eats is Goldfish crackers and milk).

Worries

There are times (and I know my blog readers know this) where I've wondered if my smiley, silly, active boy is somehow TOO rambunctious, domineering, forceful. Yesterday, while we were breakfasting with Monica and Klaus, and Kai - of course, the sweetest, gentlest, best-sharing, and always-concerned-about-his-friends'-whereabouts Kai - Monica mused whether Kai is TOO passive, giving, vulnerable.

It just goes to show you that you worry no matter what. Whether your kid is sweet and quiet, whether your kid is silly and fun, whether your kid is creative and quirky - you worry. Of course I realize it's a total waste of energy, but it's just the way we're all built, I think.

Mama

Putting Owen to sleep last night may well be one of those things I try to remember forever.

He studied my face and touched my eyelid. "Eyyye?" he asked. Yes babe, that's Mama's eye. He touched my nose, "Noooo?" Yes babe, that's Mama's nose! He did the same for my hair, lips, cheek. Then he said, "mama keee?" Kiss? "yeah". So I gave him a kiss and he wrapped his little arms around my neck and stayed like that for about 15 seconds until he giggled in my ear, "Mama".

Change.gov

Obama has put up a great website at www.change.gov to keep the citizens informed about the process and workings of the new administration. Kind of cool.

YES WE CAN!

We did it! We elected Obama as the 44th President of the United States of America.

I am so proud to be an American today. I feel like I know my country again, I belong here, I see all the people around me who wanted a change and were willing to put their faith in Obama. I am so overwhelmed with happiness about this, I can hardly speak to it adequately.

The only damper on my day is the probable passage of Prop 8. I simply don't understand how anyone can justify amending our state constitution to limit other citizens' rights. It's despicable.

Today I will just have to relish in the Obama/Biden victory, and pledge to keep fighting for GLBT rights everywhere!

OBAMA! OBAMA! YES WE CAN! YES WE DID!

Election day

This morning, Owen woke up and looked at Keith and said "Daddy!" as he does every morning. Keith opened his eyes and said "Good morning buddy! Today is the day we change the world for you."

My heart - it bursts!

My husband cracks me up

We had a Halloween party at Owen's daycare tonight where we spent some time making a colorful macaroni necklace for Auntie Meg. I put it around Keith's neck as we wandered around the other activities. So, I am sure Keith felt very pretty as he picked up some things from the drugstore on the way home.

Allow me a moment to vent

Political season is wrapping up in 15 days, and I do not think I can adequately articulate how nervous I am and how fervently I hope Obama wins.

It's something the other side feels as fervently, but if course in the complete opposite way. Sometimes I am a bit sad that, no matter who wins, nearly 1/2 of our citizens will be unhappy with the outcome; some - many, in fact, will be desperately unhappy.

I know this isn't new, certainly I cried my share if sad, bitter, scared tears in 2004 when Bush beat Kerry. But this time it just feels so much more important and terrifying. This time I really believe there is a person who can bring about the changes we desperately need. I'm fired up about election day and also exhausted from trying to engage in discourse with brick wall Rethuglicans who wouldn't know an unbiased source if it smacked them in their thick prominent brow.

Thanks, that feels better.

Top 5 things I love about my sister

5. When she complains about her thighs being too big for jeans.
4. That she can eat a bag of Cheetos without gaining the weight in the bag...or any weight at all.
3. That she ever "forgets to eat".
2. When she gives me crap for not updating my blog and she doesn't have a blog.
1. Her undying love for Celine Dion.

Almost a sentence

As I was getting Owen dressed this morning I was singing, kissing his belly and legs. I stopped and smiled at him and he said, "Hi Mama! More kisses." Clear as day! Be still my heart.

Whatever "side" you're on - be a good citizen

Yesterday I was driving to Jenn & Brian's with Owen for an afternoon visit and dinner. While waiting at the flashing yellow left-turn light at Commonwealth and Chapman, a car pulled up behind me. A break in the on-coming traffic came and I started to turn into the left lane of the two lanes going my way on Commonwealth. However, I quickly realized that the car behind me had turned right on my tail and was turning into the left lane - I had to quickly swerve into the right lane to avoid getting hit by them, even though I had the right-of-way. I looked over at their car to figure out what their problem was, and I saw a few college-age girls hanging out the window flashing McCain/Palin signs at me and giving me the finger (we have Obama stickers on our cars, I was driving the Subaru).

I was totally shocked. I am as passionate about this election as anyone I've met, and yet when I drive a car with an Obama sticker on it, I see myself as representing a larger group of individuals. I would never want to pull some jerk maneuver on the road and be "that asshole Obama supporter". Keith and I were talking about how we drive even more carefully and thoughtfully now that we put the Obama stickers on our car. I don't care if someone supports McCain/Palin - although I certainly don't understand why they do - but I would assume they would want to act respectful and in such a way that reflects well on their party.

I felt like I was driving a car with Albany High Cougar stickers all over it and they were some opposing team rah-rah'ing for their mascot at homecoming - that was the level of their ridiculous behavior. And I guess that is part of the larger distinction for me: in their behavior was so much of the machismo and disrepect towards diplomacy and earth-sharing behavior that I feel we've had to suffer for the past 8 years. Their behavior embodied so much of what I disdain about the cowboy-maverick-yeeehaw! behavior we've been subjected to from the Republican side. When are they going to wake up and realize that they're sharing the road?

This will have to do for now

I know it's been awhile since my last post, and it's been a busy time so at some point it's hard to figure out what topic to write about. Owen and I went to MN with the fam, awesome trip! But exhausting; in all the things you quickly figure out about parenthood, the complete loss of "vacation" as relaxation, reading, and playing cards, takes awhile to comprehend. It's a little like being home, but with more chaos. Thank heaven for my fun family and fall colors! It made the trip great.

Then there was Jenny's birthday at Pizza Port. Tasty pizza, lots of catching up with friends, and the requisite San Clemente slightly creepy and exceedingly drunk man wandering around talking to everyone.

This week has been exhausting but nice. Got to see Joe rock the debate Thursday. Can't wait tip 11/4!

Do as I do

Although the biting seems to have mostly resolved, Owen is a physical kid. That is a good thing (there is no snuggle shortage in the Luhrs' household), and also rough right now when he is still learning to express frustration, sadness, and anger.

Hitting is the expression of emotions du jour and our mantra, "hands are not for hitting, hitting isn't friendly" is getting a fair bit of play lately. Not that much, to be fair, but usually once a day for the past week or so.

This weekend, Owen became frustrated that we wouldn't let him play with a camera and he smacked me in the face. The hitting is usually directed at me, and on this particular day I was feeling short-fused and exhausted for no particular reason.

As our routine goes, I removed Owen from the situation, carried him into his toy room while chanting the hitting mantra. I explained that hitting hurts. I am sure he feels a mixture of embarassment and indignation when I go over this with him, he gets everything we say to him. He tried to hit me again (really this one was more of a fake-out) and I grabbed his hands to thwart the wet noodle attack and in so doing, I scratched his cheek. Scratched a gouge really. It bled a little, immediately.

The look he gave me will be burned into my retina for years. It was the worst feeling. In the middle of trying to talk to Owen about gentle touches and alternate ways to express frustration, I accidentally hurt him. I wrapped him into a big hug and he just melted into me but was sobbing. I told him that Mommy did not mean to scratch him. I think he got it, but man, that moment of bewilderment will not be forgotten by me for a long time.

Use your words, honey

Last night, Owen was frustrated at the table during dinner, and was causing a ruckus. As he's back arching and screeching in his booster seat, I said to him, "Are you frustrated? Can you tell us what you want? Can you use your words?" And I really do think that he looked at me and telepathically said: Mom. I can tell you that a cow moos. I can say "baa baa" for the sheep sound. I can tell you dogs bark, lions roar, and owls hoot. I can name my shoe. I can name a banana. I say Mama and Daddy. Are you seriously asking me to tell you that I'm frustrated because you won't hand me that wine glass to shatter all over the room?

He had a good point.

Butt

We have heard from many a reliable source that, at some point, Owen would have a word explosion. That, some day soon, he would just kind of start talking.

Of course we disregarded this, thinking most likely that is just how the process looks in hindsight. But this weekend, at Meg and Adam's lovely fun wedding, Owen really did have a word explosion.

It started off with an adorable moment when Keith showed Owen a picture of Owen and Stew on the patio and Owen pointed to Stew and said "Schteewwww". More words followed. But my absolute favorite was this morning's event: I was crouched down in a squat with my arms out ready to hug Owen running towards me. Instead of running into my waiting arms, he ran around behind my back, put a hand down the back of my pants and said, "BUTT".

Jaws, Part I

This post is probably not a light one. It's kind of the elephant in the room, but my amazing sister has finally encouraged me to write about it.


From my post a couple weeks ago, any lurker to my blog knows that my Dad and sister have dystonia. My Dad developed symptoms in...I want to say Spring of 1998, at the age of 54. My sister developed symptoms in late summer of 2005, at the age of 32. This is insanely young for dystonia - it definitely supports a genetic component; most CNS genetic disorders are charcterized by early onset. My Dad has segmental dystonia (cervical dystonia, specifically, affecting his neck, shoulders & arms). My sister has focal dystonia (specifically oromandibular dystonia).


In some ways, there is too much to say on this topic. There is no way that I can appropriately address the depth of this issue and how it has affected all of us, on a blog. But I find that I don't talk about it enough, and being bottled up really isn't my bag. Although I tend towards neurotic, and sometimes I talk obsessively about things that worry me, I do know that it's not in my nature to keep things tightly wrapped. My Dad's disease has been heartbreaking for all of us for a million reasons that can't possibly articulated. My sister's disease is heartbreaking in most of those ways, too, and also some other ones.

Like, she's so young. She is 35. She has two small kids and has a hard time speaking & eating. She has a hard time reading books to them. I'm not sure she can sing to them easily. She tends towards being thin - difficulty eating is just a cruel symptom. She's smaller, physically, than I am & there is this weird thing for me about needing to protect her. I almost wish I had a big cloak and I could wrap my arms around her and carry her with me, and make sure she's eating enough, and take care of her. It's a very vivid image I have, and it's probably not coming across very well, but that's ok.

My understanding of dystonia, in many ways, is very clinical. I've read the literature. I know the anatomy. I know what Botox does. I know what drug families are used, what generally works, what their common side effects are, what the treatment option schedule is. In some ways having that clinical perspective has been helpful for my family, but probably only marginally, and looking back it's probably much more of a defense mechanism.


I want to be Erin's cheerleader, the upbeat one that can reassure. But there is something about reassurance when things are hard and treatments aren't working the way they should that is maddening. It's awful to be terrified and anxious and angry and frustrated and be told to "give it one more try" or "give it one more week" or "we'll just try something slightly different next time". It's so easy to say those things when it's not YOUR life, not YOUR everyday, not YOUR every meal. And I totally know that.

I went to get some fillings the other week and a few days later my jaw was really sore. I mean, sore in a way that was totally foreign to me; my tongue felt too big for my mouth, my jaw and under my jaw felt really tight and it was exhausting trying to normalize it all day. I'm not exaggerating when I say that about 99% of my attention Monday - Wednesday the following week was focused on my jaw. I. Was. Terrified. I was a complete wreck. I couldn't function, couldn't find joy in anything except a few stolen moments with Owen. I felt like I was staring down this motor disorder that had captured my Dad and has stolen my sister' s voice from the other end of the phone, and I didn't know how I - the optimist, the cheerleader - would deal with it. I couldn't imagine not talking to Owen, not singing, not reading books. I couldn't imagine how it would affect my job, could I give talks at work still? Would Botox work for me?

I didn't want to talk to Keith about it, he is already so hyperaware of any abnormal movement I complain about. I didn't want to talk to my Mom about it - that's the last worry she needs. I certainly didn't want to talk to my sister about it - asking her to comfort me seemed cruel. But I did talk to my sister, and I'm so glad. She is the only person who would know that panic that I would feel, and she was amazing.

My jaw is ok. And that's not really the point of this post anyway. The point is that I got a glimpse, however small, however superficial, of what my sister faces EVERY SINGLE DAY. The uncertainty, exhaustion, fear, anxiety, and I totally understand if it makes her angry to have to deal with all of this. I don't know what my future holds with dystonia, and it's a little scary staring that question in the face all the time, but I do know that I will do whatever is humanly possible for me to do to help find a treatment for my sister.

Car Karma

We had girls night last night, which was the best one in recent memory, primarily because it was the ONLY one in recent memory. But also because it was lots of fun and Jenn had the best, I mean BEST nightmare student story ever.

After that lovely dinner with Jenn & Veena, I drove home, in Keith's Outback, and happened to catch Obama's speech on NPR. I knew Keith was recording it, but figured I'd listen in the car too - anyone who knows me knows that it's hard for me to get enough politics lately.

When Obama got to the part about "...change doesn't come FROM Washington, change comes TO Washington" I actually yelled "YEAH! WHOO HOOOOO" in the car and pumped my fist a few times. About 15 seconds later I notice the cop lights in my rear view mirror.

Crap! My mind races, 'when did I finish my second margarita? Was I driving like a maniac listening to the speech? Was I swerving?' I pull over to the shoulder and wait. The cop shines his floodlight at my car; I'm blinded.

I know that he's walking around the car checking something out but I can't tell what. I'm shaking so bad I can hardly push the button to roll down the passenger-side window, let alone pull my ID out of the stupid credit card organizer. He walks up to the window and says, "The reason I pulled you over is that you don't have your lights on. I saw you coming but only at the last minute."

I'm mortified. I know exactly what happened - the automatic day-lights in Keith's car look just like dashlights to me. Unless you know the car, you'd never know that the back lights aren't on because the dash lights and headlights are always automatic. I told the cop that it was my husband's car, and he looked at me like I was very special. Then I remembered that I was driving a dirty Subaru Outback with a bike rack and license plate that says "I [heart] tra1l". I guess it made sense to him that this car did not actually belong to the khaki-wearing soccer-mom looking woman before him.

At any rate, he was super nice - which was a great change in cop demeanor for me. He told me to get up to speed on the shoulder before trying to merge onto the toll road. Really, there is nothing more stressful than having a COP watch you merging back into 70 MPH traffic after pulling you over for being stupid enough not to turn on your lights at 8pm.

Tonight, a guy backed up into Keith driving MY car in the parking lot of the drugstore. Car Karma week, I tell you.

Dentist, part I

I went to the dentist today. I would love to make it sound like I’m an every-six-monther, but I’m really not; the last time I went was in June of 2006, and I didn’t go back because I got pregnant that July. In fact, I got pregnant for the sole purpose of avoiding going back to get a filling.

I think I’ve always disliked going to the dentist, usually because I had some bad news – filling, root canal, tooth possibly erupting out of the side of my face, you know – the usual. If it weren’t for my parents dragging me to all the various and sundry dental, orthodontal, periodontal, and oral surgeon appointments, I would be an adorable cross-bite and gap-toothed woman with a tooth coming out of my cheek.

As far as teeth genes, I am on what we scientists like to call a “mixed genetic background”. My mom has teeth that could withstand a month in a vat of Coca-Cola, and my father has teeth made from a dubious mixture of phyllo dough, caulk, and frosting. I think I ended up with a hybrid of the two – I don’t do so bad, but if I follow my general every-few-years to the dentist schedule, I generally need a filling. I’ve had two root canals done on my adult teeth, which may or may not sound like a lot – to me, it sounds fine and I’m just glad the number is 2 not 30. One root canal was easy – it was done by a woman here in Orange County who was fascinating to watch work, and that’s not just the nitrous oxide talking. She got into this zen state when she was doing the root canal. She was amazing. It probably helps that she was an endodontist and not some crazy hack dentist working out of her living room with only dogs as her assistants.

Which brings me to my other root canal. Go back and read the last sentence of the previous paragraph and that tells you pretty much all you need to know. That, and the fact that her skill with anesthesia could probably be rivaled in aptitude only by my cat’s ability to sing opera. Not following me? I had virtually no anesthesia. She had virtually no idea what she was doing. She had a dental chair in her living room and wore these glasses that made her eyes look about 4 feet in diameter – imagine Professor Trelawney from Harry Potter (played by Emma Thompson), but instead of the psychic abilities, imagine her holding a drill and looking very, very scared. I’m not exaggerating at all, it was traumatic.

So it probably comes as no surprise to anyone reading this (particularly not my sister who was with me for the root canal and I’m sure we both could use some counseling about it) that I need to have that root canal re-done. Root Canal Redux, I’m calling it. I figure if I make it seem like a movie sequel, it will be fun!

Wii fit - you suck

It told me that my Wii fit age was 49. Screw you, Wii fit.

Babble

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Bear with me

This morning Owen and I enjoyed a good half hour at the park by ourselves before other families began trickling in. The first family to join us was a couple and their son around Owen's age. With them was a set of grandparents. The grandpa was wearing the most ridiculously awful shirt - a difficult-to-describe hybrid of a hawaiian shirt with Tigger on it. Something a grandpa would wear on a day he is being a grandpa, and it was beyond adorable.

I've never been one to wish for a different set of parents. Certainly as a teen I am sure I had moments where I wished I could disappear, but in general Erin and I knew we were the envy of our friends where parents were concerned.

By contrast, I certainly wish for different circumstances for all of us sometimes. I know our lives are blessed and I am grateful for everything I have without a doubt. But sometimes when I see a grandfather playing with their grandchild, I miss the kind of grandfather my Dad would have been if he wasn't ravaged by dystonia and whatever else has taken him. Kids loved my Dad back in the day - he was magical with them.

I've heard people talk about mourning the loss of someone who is still alive, and I certainly relate to that. The generous lovable Dad I grew up with is still in there, but he is missing so many of the twinkling, dynamic qualities that made him one of my favorite people to spend time with. I am sorry that my boy and Keith will never know that person. Times like today I am so overwhelmed with that sense of loss.

There are lots of things that make me sad about it - the loss of my Mom's companion & the way their life used to be, the loss of his independence and full life. And sometimes I am just sad for me.

I really miss my Dad today.

Job? What job?

I may or may not be exaggerating when I say that I have not worked a full week since Keith started at Allergan in June. This isn't really related to Keith, per se, but it's a way I'm keeping track of the time & how often Owen has gotten sick. I'm not sure who the vector is - to be honest, I don't think other kids at his daycare have gotten sick as often as he has. I think he's just a magnet - he attracts people, he attracts cuteness (come on, you know it's true), and he obviously attracts viruses too.

It's hard to not feel continually guilty - guilty for missing work, guilty that Owen gets sick so often. A friend of mine once said that if she didn't know me, she would have just assumed that breastfed kids never get sick. Well, guess what? I'm still nursing my almost 17-month-old and newsflash - he still gets sick.

It probably doesn't help that we let him play in dumpsters and he shares his binkies with neighborhood dogs (they're just so friendly). Or that we import water from Baja California for our handwashing at home. I mean, seriously - is there any rhyme or reason to why some kids catch everything and some kids catch nothing? I asked a Dad in daycare yesterday if his daughter had gotten sick a lot this summer and he was like "Sick? Hmm....no?" and I'm telling you, if he had asked me that same question I would have thrown myself into his arms and sobbed over how happy I was that it happened to someone else's kid. Alas, that was not the case.

But, for the time he's well. And he isn't biting. I'm sure I will look back on these crises when he's 15 and refusing to speak to me and sneaks home reeking of cigarettes and beer that I will think "ah, if only my troubles were that I had to take off so much work to snuggle my child all day..."

Mommy brain

Despite all fears & predictions, we have had a relatively mild summer here so far. Mild meaning only a few days over 95 degrees. Most days are in the mid 80's and tolerable. Last year, when Owen was tiny, the summer was unbearable. It was sweltering hot every day, and I could hardly go anywhere with him because of it. I got so cabin-feverish that I started making Keith crazy.

Last night we went for a walk after dinner and it was gorgeous, I mean, low 70's, beautiful summer night. Keith said "It's a lot like our first summer here." And I almost stopped walking - seriously - because I realized that this is our fourth summer at this condo and I literally cannot remember a single summer other than last year. Come to think of it, I can hardly remember anything that happened in the couple of years before Owen was born. Is this some type of strange adaptation that happens to moms? What did my summers look like before Owen? What did we do? I know that Keith biked a lot, and I went to San Diego a lot, but other than that, I am telling you, it is blank.

Am I the only one?

HOT

Lately, Owen is obsessed with all things "hot". When I turn on the stove, he signs "hot". When he sees steam, he signs "hot". When you bring him food, he looks at you & signs "hot" as if to ask if the food will burn him. Even when he sees a sunbeam he signs it - no joke. Last night when we were at the park the sprinklers were misting and he thought it was steam, so he signed "hot", then as we got closer he realized it was "wa wa" and went to play in it. I think it's a good idea that he is afraid of hot things, but lately he won't let me be in the kitchen if the stove is on. He seems terrified that I might get hurt, or doesn't like me playing around the hot stove. There's something completely endearing about seeing him lose it when I turn on the stove, he comes in and reaches for my hand and wants me to pick him up and take him out of the kitchen. It makes it a little hard to cook dinner, but it sure is sweet.

Mommy Groove

Tonight was one of those satisfying Mommy nights. We had snacks on the way home ready for Owen. I made a quick, tasty dinner and we ate happily together at the table. We took a fun walk to the park, played, then went to get yogurt. Owen signed "sleepy" and "milk" and fell asleep in the crook of my arm humming songs with me.

The times we Mommies feel certain that we are doing exactly right by our children are to be relished. It's easy to notice my temper, my tendency towards impatience, my occasional desire to find refuge in lazing around. It's easy to get side-tracked by perceived other-mommy criticisms or competition. Tonight I just totally grooved on my awesome family.

Busy week

Owen got sick on the plane home from Chicago, and was out-of-sorts for a few days. I caught his virus the next day and was out-of-sorts for a few days. It seems so far that Keith has escaped it, although both Erin and Charlie were knocked down by it, too. I wonder when we got it? At any rate, we're all feeling better.

I admitted to Keith this weekend, that as he drove me home on Thursday and as I literally felt like I wouldn't be able to make it up the stairs to our condo without help, part of me was ecstatic about being able to lay in bed - across the entire bed, if I wanted. By myself. Without having to nurse anyone. So, it tells you how your lounging life changes when you have a baby, that a recognizable part of you is happy to be so sick you can hardly function, only because it means that you get to be in bed by yourself.

Jenny and Stew (newly engaged!) had a going-away party for Kate on Saturday and it was a bit like a reunion, with my tipsy husband happily recounting every drunken story from 1997-present to our gaggle of friends, many of whom we haven't seen in months. (It was a long afternoon, so he fit it all in.) It was so great to see everyone, and get some extra time with Eddie & Steph after not seeing them for so long during Con Season. Overall a lovely weekend topped off by a relaxing Sunday at home with the boys. Next up on the calendar: botox neurology adventures with Erin on Friday.

Before Kids, Part I

Before kids, when my back seat was soft, supple, pristine leather, I would see cheerio-and-crayon-coated car seats and shudder. Surely I knew the solution: you just don't give them cheerios or crayons in the car! Sometimes the most brilliant ideas are also the simplest.



Now, with my back seat looking like a back-splash at a dairy farm, and after having sent a car key to General Mills for access during those code-yellow Cheerio shortage emergencies, I get that it's not so simple. With Owen's weight barely keeping pace with his height I will shovel food into this kid whatever it takes. And, apparently it means that Keith will occasionally find some really disgusting things under the carseat when he's cleaning the car.

Charlieisms

Still in Chicago for the International Conference on Alzheimer's Disease and had the BEST time with Erin and the kiddos & Mommers. The boys are adorable and I will post pics on the Picasa site when I get home (Erin's already posted hers!). It made all of us realize that we need to get the kids together so much more; they're so fun together.

I haven't seen Charlie and Reilly since October (for shame, I know), although we did get to see Erin in February. When I saw Charlie last, he was talking of course, but it was much different than now. Now he's completely fluent and it's just fascinating to hear how he phrases things. Like, when he is eating some crackers and Erin would prefer he eats something else and says "Charlie, I want you to eat some of your sandwich, not just crackers" he says "I'm just eating some crackers" in a tone that sounds like he's contradicting her understanding of what is going on. Or, he'll have a cup of water and be drinking it on the couch and Erin will say "Charlie, can you please sit on the floor and drink the cup of water so you don't spill on Nonni's bed?" and Charlie would say "I'm just drinking a little water on Nonni's bed." I can't do the cuteness justice, it's BEYOND adorable.

Erin and I got some much-needed smister time last night, but Mommy duties called us back a little early. Regardless, I can't say how nice it was to sit outside with Erin at a bar nearby, sipping a cocktail, enjoying the nice Chicago afternoon. I'm so glad we have more trips planned coming up - I miss my smister.

Haircut

I'm sure many mothers have made the same mistake. The oh-that-hair-cutting-thing-doesn't-look-so-hard thing. Owen's clown curls were getting a little out of control, so I secured his head in place with one hand and cut with the other. The results were...not so good. The next night, determined to even out my little Lloyd from Dumb and Dumber, I made it even worse. I mean, it is bad. Keith actually told me not to touch it anymore, to let it grow out. Keith said that. Keith the most mellow husband in the world told me to not cut another hair on my son's head.

He's not wrong. Owen looks like he cut his own hair. Blindfolded. With a pair of craft scissors. Or a backhoe.

Snappy dresser

Owen gets that we require he wear a hat outside when the sun is up. When your kid is a little baldie like Owen, hats are non-negotiable. He now thinks that if he brings a hat to us, or puts one on himself, he gets to go outside. Yesterday he grabbed his sneakers, brought us a hat, and...truly, how could we resist?

For my homies

This one is going out to my sister, Erin - HOLLA! She told me this morning, "You haven't updated your blog in FOREVER. I've already read Duck Snuggles!!" So...you're saying you don't want to read it every day? Hm.

So, here we go - a new post!

Keith and I got iPhones a week and a half ago. I don't remember my life before Owen, and I also don't remember what I did before the internet. Now, I'm starting to feel the same kind of freaky dependent love for my iPhone. You can check email ANYWHERE! You can read books? Are you lost? No problem - built in GPS with directions! Yellow Pages - no worries! Want to surf the web - have at it. Texting? Phoning? Butofcourse. If I'm talking to my sister and my mom calls, well no problem, I can just ADD the call and make it a conference. Not convinced yet? Well, here is one other option:

The iPhone comes with lots of Applications you can download. For example, I've downloaded a Movie application that finds where I am on GPS and lists all the theaters and showtimes for me. I've also downloaded a reading application that comes with hundreds of free books. There are too many to describe, and probably only 1/100th of them are useful in any sense of the word.

For example, Keith has gone a different direction than me with his application choices. He has downloaded the application that looks like a glass of beer, and when you tilt your iPhone, it looks like you're emptying it (haha! DRINKING THE BEER!). He has also downloaded the application that has a cowbell - you tap it with your finger and it makes (you guessed it!) the cowbell sound! Hours of fun. But, my favorite one is the one that translates what you dictate. I don't remember what it is called and if Keith were here and not out buying me booze he could remind me, but essentially you can record up to 15 seconds of dictation and it translates it into notes automatically. He showed me his test and true to claim I saw the words "Does this thing really work?" So I dictated a shopping list: bananas, cheerios, salsa, paper towels. It gave me this: "I am tired. Me bill."

Totally.

Duck snuggles

I've spent some time lately in Owen's daycare, and one of the things I've noticed is that the girls all play with dolls and the boys mostly knock things over and shake things. There are a couple exceptions, but they are rare.

During free-play, the girls will grab a doll, grab a scarf ("blanket") and wrap the doll, hold her cradle-style, then unwrap and re-wrap the doll. Lather, rinse, repeat. Sometimes they will have Judy, Maria, (or me when I'm visiting) help them swaddle their "baby". As an aforementioned exception to the gender roles, when I was visiting a couple weeks ago Owen was carrying a baby around as well. Except that he was holding it over his shoulder, not cradle style. Oh, and also: the feet were resting on his shoulder, the head hanging down, and Owen's chubby little hand was comforting said "baby" with gentle pats on the bottom. Sweet - if not rightside-up.

In tubbies tonight I was watching Owen play with one of his rubber duckies. He was trying to wrap the duck in his washcloth. He would put the duck in the water then try to wrap the cloth around it, but the duck would bob and weave in the water and elude Owen's plans for cuddles. Finally he succeeded. He swooped the duck up (tail up, of course) and over his shoulder with such glee and pride, then said "Awwwww."

My heart - it melts.

Be prepared for an inundation of photos

We got iPhones on Friday.

Zoom zoom

Owen is better. Mommyhood is back to being blissful. Owen and I went for a walk this morning and he played in the kiddie fountain and we got him some Cars crocs and it has been a fantastic morning that will soon be followed by a trip to the beach.

We passed a woman this morning who was sitting outside of Ross, watiting for it to open. I smiled warmly at her and she stared blankly at me. My eyes immediately looked down at Owen, and I wondered if she interpreted my smile as smug Momminess. I did feel happy and proud of my cute chatterbox showing off his new shoes. But mostly I just felt friendly and generous with a stranger. It contrasted so sharply with other feelings I've had this whole week.

I come back, in my head, over and over to the "roller coaster" cliche. Although at my core I believe that I could think of something more creative, the roller coaster ride really does describe motherhood so well. I've tried to concoct other, better scenarios: my rickety convertible metaphor doesn't completely work. The idea of going up and down a mountain - far too slow to capture motherhood's meteroic highs and lows. Perhaps a fast drive through San Francisco in a car with a bad clutch? Unfortunately that one only really works for locals; it might just make non-locals wonder if you see a lot of rainbow flags and eat lots of seafood and sourdough bread after becoming a mom.

Nothing compares with the emotional ups and downs of motherhood. Not even early marriage, with the constant compromising and dreaming and building of a lifetime foundation one argument and pillow-talk-whisper at a time. Motherhood is rife with heart-clutching love, stomach-punching fear, anxiety that makes you literally dizzy, and a new devotion you could not imagine would happen to you (just all those other moms). And it's perfectly normal to fly through each of these states moment to moment.

Fortunately or unfortunately for anyone reading this blog, you get to see me go through it regularly, especially this week. Fortunately for you, you don't have to read it. Keith was reading this blog the other night, catching up on my retelling of our brutal week. I asked him if I sounded insane. "Not at all," he said. The timing and tone of his reply made me think he was being honest. I think what that means is that fatherhood is just as crazy a ride.

Fire...barfs

Owen has a barfing sickness.
In spite of this, we had a lovely day in San Diego with Sharon, Clayton and Amy.

How can both things be true, you ask? Well, given that Owen was sick Monday and Tuesday, then I was home with Mr. Bites on Wednesday, and spent a good chunk of the day with him at daycare yesterday, even though he seemed a little under the weather this morning ("Oh, I think he barfed because I jostled him when I picked him up", says Keith and I agree. What were we thinking?) I was NOT sitting in our house today. So: we headed south with zero traffic into lovely San Diego weather.

We hit the kids science center, played a bit, then grabbed lunch. This was when Owen, looking punkier by the second, pukes huge volumes of vomit all over me and the ground next to us. I felt very sad for the diners around us, but more sad for Owen...and then also a lot sad for myself completely covered in baby vomit. We headed back to S&C's house for clean-up.

The boy felt a bit better after that, played a bit, we really enjoyed the day overall. I know Owen will be ok, and I managed to get in some good quality snuggles even if they were slightly anxious is-my-baby-really-ok snuggles. We ate an amazing dinner. Owen barfed again, looked awful, we headed home, he barfed about 5 more gallons when we walked in the door, and now he's sleeping (on his SIDE) while I vent in this blog that is now becoming my personal vent-all journal.

What the hell? I almost hope no one reads this for awhile because I'm so ridiculously obsessed with this shittiest of weeks and every movement that my kid makes. Sick, biting, daycare-shadowing, puking. I realize that any other mother reading this is thinking "Welcome to motherhood, Lo" and you'd be right. Welcome indeed. We've been relatively lucky to be spared the barfing sickness (it's true: this morning was the first time Owen ever really vomited). But this week I feel like, up to now, motherhood has been like holding a baby while driving in a slightly rickety convertible - I'm not entirely comfortable that everything will always go smoothly and that I always have a grasp on things, and most of the time my hair is a disaster but I don't care because I'm having so much fun. But this week, someone took away the windshield, and oh, also the steering wheel and tires, so I'm carreening along in this bumpy rickety car getting bugs in my teeth and vomit on my pants and I have no idea how to steer or where we're going.

There are other things in my life, you know

Just reading all this biting nonsense, then sitting back and thinking about the past few weeks...it occurred to me that I haven't commented at all on the amazing visit from Jess. Anyone reading this likely knows that Jess is one of my best friends who cruelly left Jenn, Kate, Joie, and I alone to wade through the relative dearth of hilarious drunken instigators remaining in OC. At least the ones we would ever care to hang out with.

We had girls night on Saturday night at Kate's (favorite moments: Jenn describing her 80/20 2-word life-organization philosophy and I asked her if her two words were "canisters" and "clutter" - she claimed they were "motherfucker" and something else but I was working so hard not to pee my pants after all that that I missed the second word. I'm pretty sure it was her 20 anyway, and I'm pretty sure it was "canisters". To be fair, mine would be "Target" and "clutter" so I wasn't exactly throwing stones from my stone castle).

Sunday was a picnic at the park with all the kiddos and some of the girls (missed you, Joie). Lucky for us the park had a fantastic watering toy, so everyone stayed cool. (favorite moment: Kate and Owen's nose-kiss). Click on pic to make it larger.



Monday night was dinner at the Melting Pot. There were too many moments to describe, and I'm sure I won't do any of them justice, but I wish we could do it every Monday. I often forget how funny Jess is, and how she makes me laugh like no one else. How we all know each other so well that a look, a word, a gesture sends us dissolving into ridiuculous cackling. I know we're never going to convince her to move back here, but I certainly hope she knows how missed she is.

Hanging in there

I went to daycare with Owen today. Not exactly what Keith and I had in mind for our Date Day v2.0, but it is what it is.

I realize that I'm a neurotic mess about this but at the same time I kind of have to be. And also, this whole motherhood thing has really amplified my complete inability to filter out stress. I can't miss more work. Owen is likely to try again to bite. And if he succeeds, we'll have to (1) stay home with him for a week and then possibly (2) leave Turtle Rock which will mean that I have to look into finding another place for him, which is more time away from work. It's exhausting that this is taking up so much space in my brain, but I almost feel like someone has hung a bowling ball from my earring and then told me to try to ignore it.

I see lots of opportunities for him to bite other kids without Maria or Judy being able to get to him in time, so I understand their dilemma. Just like there are plenty of opportunities for the other kids to push, smack, or steal toys from the other kids; these are all age-appropriate behaviors, but biting is the social taboo of toddlerhood. Whenever I tell someone this situation I always feel the need to emphasize the teething while flashing my I'm-a-loving-Mommy jazz hands and insisting that my kid really is as great as I say he is. And, it's all true. He's not biting because he's a mean kid. He's biting because, well, baby fingers feel good on teething gums. Everyone is pretty clear about why it started; we're just worried that it's turning into a habit to grab fingers and put them in his mouth.

Anyway, life goes on. Keith and I went to Gypsy Den for lunch while Owen napped, then grabbed a beer at the Goat Hill Tavern, and Keith housed me at shuffleboard. After ordering too much food at lunch, I was far too full to drink my beer, and Keith was far too interested in their beer selection to leave in a time-frame that suited my anxiety about picking Owen up after his nap. It was a fun afternoon, but I was just too distracted to really enjoy it. Hey, on a happy note, my camera is fixed so we'll be able to upload new photos soon. More jazz hands!

Once we got home the fun finally, truly began. Books galore with an adorably goofy and affectionate kiddo. I got to listen to the boys play, read, and wrestle while I cooked dinner. Owen and I did tubbies and then the little Man went to sleep snuggled against me. I love being a Mom so much. I just wish I knew that I was doing everything right.

Puddle

I'm a wreck today.

Owen bit another child at daycare again - he constantly has his hands in his mouth and his teachers are totally sympathetic to the teething situation, but still I had to pick him up from daycare today. Another bite and he's home for a week. A fourth bite, and he's out.

Aside from the fact that it sucks that he bit another kid, the timing really could not be worse. We kept him home Monday and Tuesday because of his fever. I had a new employee start Monday and have barely spent any time with her. Employee of the year, I am not.

I came home and put a snoozing Owen in bed for the remainder of his nap. When I picked him up out of his car seat, he put his little arms around my neck and I was struck again with just how sweet and loving he is. What is this biting about? Is it just teething or is it more? Is he overwhelmed with 8 other kids around?

I came to the computer to look into in-home daycare and nanny options - all of which appear to be significantly cheaper than what we're doing right now, but somehow the thought of taking Owen out of Turtle Rock makes my heart lurch. When we pulled up at the school this morning, he said "Yay yay yay!" He ran into his room, so happy to be back. More than knowing that he loves it there, being able to take Owen to Turtle Rock daycare is somehow intricately linked to my sanity. Going back to work was so hard and knowing that he was there made it a million times easier, at least that is what I think.

So the thought of putting him in a different daycare setting without lots of friends, without all the play yards, without all the women who literally beam when he walks in the door every morning, it just breaks my heart and I am a total puddle.

They told me to wait - we don't need to find another option yet and we'll keep working on it, but I just don't know how hopeful I am that my little 15-month old can follow their guidelines.

Waiting for Birdy

For the past 15 months I've lamented to Jenn that I know I really want another baby... someday...but it's impossible to imagine that we could get as lucky a second time as we did with Owen. Because of that, I'm pretty sure that any second child will be completely un-cute, and therefore horribly unloved.



As a fear, I admit this is far from original for a new Mom. When I'd go into my neurotic spiral (or, rather, exhibit a slice of my constant neurosis) Jenn would laugh and say "Oh, I have to get this book for you. Waiting for Birdy." I would nod and say "Ok." and we'd move on. This last week, Jenn gave me the book - and oh. my. God. It's almost like this woman looked into my head and read my thoughts and wrote them all down as if to mock me and let me think that other mothers are this insane and paranoid. Reading the book is a bit like having a conversation with Jenn about parenting. In fact, I'm going to ask Jenn if Catherine Newman is really her nom de plume. I suspect it is.



I started bookmarking specific pages with passages that I thought "Hey, next time I'm pregnant I'm going to show this to Keith to describe my mental/physical state." But then I realized I was sliding a bookmark in pretty much every page. So, the bottom line is read it. It's hilarious. And every word of it is true.

Sick

After romping in the park, true to form for a 15-month old, Owen happily crashed, exhausted, in the stroller for the short walk home. When I put his sleepy body in his crib, he felt a little warm, but I chalked it up to the warm house, the fun night with Monica, Klaus, and Kai.

Three hours later my poor boy awoke a sweaty, shivery kiddo. His temperature was around 102, and later, 104. No vomit or other fluid loss (wink) just hot and miserable. Tylenol and nursies to the rescue.

Even though I know this happens to every kid - this mysterious viral vagabond sweeping through the house - it takes every fiber of sanity I have to not rush Owen to the nearest urgent care, thrust him towards the attending physician, and insist she "Make him better. NOW." I'm sure said physician would look at me, bewildered, and of course I would have to reminder her that this is Precious Owen and therefore she could be arrested for not jumping to action.

There's just something so heartbreaking about a sick toddler, the ragdoll limpness in the limbs that are normally moving a mile a minute and very often smacking me on the head, the eyes that normally twinkle with the newly formed plan to grab the pen off the desk and practice running down the hall with it, yes those eyes now meet yours and ask "What happened? Why am I hot and cold all at the same time? Why do you keep kissing me?"

He's already starting to look like he feels better, although he's slept most of the day. I know he'll be better, at most in a day or two, but it's just another reminder that being a parent means that you'll often wish it could be you instead of your kid.

Indecision

I was working at the computer and Owen came up to me and waved his arms for "help" (a sign I forgot to mention in my brag blog, heh heh), so I pulled him up on my lap. About 10 seconds later, he wanted down. So I put him down. Then about 10 seconds later he wanted back up. I stood up and picked him up and playfully swung him up and down in my arms. I said, "I dont know what you want, do you want up? Do you want down? Do you want up? Do you want down?" swinging him up and down with my questions. After about 10 swings he said "Yes."

Daddy

Keith is starting to catch on that Tubby Time is the best choice when given the option of "post-dinner clean-up or tubbies?" In the past, I think (and I may be wrong but I don't think I am) that it stressed Keith out a bit to give Owen a bath. Mostly this was when he was really little and it was a bit tricky to clean Owen's little slippery nakedness without some anxiety that he might squirt out of our grasp and fly across the room. For awhile, when I'd give him the post-dinner choice mentioned above, he'd offer to do the dishes (1) because he knows I love tubby time and (2) because of residual tubby fears from when Owen was tiny. Unfortunately for me, now he gets that tubby time with Owen is the funnest thing ever, and my gig is up.

I realized that I let Father's Day come and go without mention. I'm totally embarassed about this, and also without any clue how to pay homage to Keith on a blog. The truth is that he amazes me with his ability to combine playful, protective, sweet, affectionate, and gentle discipline into every moment he shares with Owen. I've learned a lot from watching him and know that will continue for the rest of our lives. I could, and maybe should, say a lot more about this, about the joy of sharing this child with this particular man, or about the fact that I could watch the two of them play together for hours. But beyond that, I'm going to just say here that I'm one lucky Mama & wife. The way I feel about sharing parenthood with Keith is another one of those things that is just too precious for words.

A brag post

Owen now has 24 signs he uses regularly and without prompting.

Please
Thank you
More
Dog
Cat
Horse
Bird
Bear
Gorilla
Monkey
Hat
Banana
Apple
Avocado
Cracker
Water
Eat/food
Cereal
Milk
Ball
Bus/truck
Car
All done
Book

He also nods and says "yes" and shakes his head "no". Last night he said "duck" when playing with his rubber duckie. And he also says "book" "doggie" "kitty" and of course says "Mama" and "Daddy".

Can you tell I'm proud?

When your kid loves other people

Watching Owen with Stew is one of my favorite pasttimes. He LOVES Stew. I mean, Stew walks in the house and it's suddenly "Mama? Who? Oh, you mean the woman with the boobs? Yeah, she's ok." When Stew is there I give him the plate with Owen's dinner because I know he will be more successful than I will at getting Owen to eat some edamame. There's something so heartbreakingly adorable about seeing your child's first other-person crush; he'll walk behind Stew and think that Stew is watching him and he gets this big silly grin and then realizes that Stew didn't see what he just did and will look a little crestfallen...but then he'll peek around Stew's back and catch his eye and crack up, so satisfied with himself for reminding Stew that it's time for The Owen Show.

Books in reverse

In my head, when Owen does this, it makes kind of a "beep beep" sound of a truck backing up slowly. I had always hoped that Owen would do this, ever since my nephew Charlie did it a couple of years ago and completely melted my heart. Owen now will bring a book to me/Keith, turn around with his back to us, and walk a few steps backwards and plant himself in our lap. He is parallel parking into our lap, backing up into a soft comfortable reading chair - a chair that reads TO you, no less, and leans back against our respective chest. I swear, this never gets old, it is perhaps the most adorable thing occurring on this planet, and that includes the really cute baby panda at the SD Zoo, folks.

Biter

Last Monday, the 9th, I went to pick up Owen at daycare and saw that he had an incident report in his cubby; he had bit another kid. When I spoke with his teacher, she emphasized that he's teething and probably uncomfortable, ergo: biting.

The next day she told me the Turtle Rock policy: One bite: note. Two bites: we keep him home for the rest of the day. Three bites: we keep him home for a week. Fourth bite: he's out. As Veena and Keith can easily attest, I was a mess the entire day Tuesday, constantly freaked out that the school was going to call and tell me to come get my little cannibal.

I'll jump over most of the unnecessary drama about this in my head. Mostly I'm just sad that this story has morphed from being a normal teething reaction in a precocious teether (he's working on #'s 13-16) into a possible aggression issue. I'm sorry, but my child is not aggressive. He's FOURTEEN MONTHS OLD, he's getting 4-6 teeth all at once. Those gums need some massaging; can you really blame him for gnawing on the sweet arms of his peers? I'm kidding, of course, but the fact remains that I'm becoming increasingly impatient with his teacher's attitude about it and willingness to change the story as she goes. I'm completely dependent on them to keep him from "biting" - and for the record? He has not tried to bite me ONCE this weekend. Sure, there are plenty of open mouth kisses and raspberries (both of which we are - heartbreaklingly - trying to discourage at the moment), but not one bite. I hope his teachers lighten the hell up and realize that they're probably just making him totally anxious at this point.

Please - send happy no-bite thoughts to my boy this week. I want to put this silliness behind us.

Truly pathetic

I have been the worst blogger ever lately. It's not for a lack of material - Owen does something new and adorable every day and Keith and I have a full plate of goings-on, but for whatever reason, I've been totally uninspired to write anything down. So - I'm going to start writing shorter stories again, just little tidbits of something funny or stressful or whatever, to keep everyone up-to-date, smiling, and to let me let off a little steam.

A brief update on the past week or so:

Keith left his job at Peregrine on Wednesday. They had a nice lunch-out and a happy-hour celebration for him (Owen and I joined for the latter and Owen flirted shamelessly with Debbie for the entire time). I took Thurs-Fri off work to spend time with my boys. On Thursday we went to the zoo with Sharon and Clayton...for SEVEN HOURS. Owen was in heaven, I think we all were. It was such a fantastic day. Unfortunately my camera is broken (still) otherwise I'd upload some pics here.

Friday Keith and I had a "date day". It was blissful! We dropped Owen off at daycare around 9 and went to our old Costa Mesa bagel shop for breakfast, then saw a movie in a theater (Ironman - it was loads of fun and perfect for distraction). We then went and had a couple of beers, then picked up the boy at daycare where we'd planned to partake in the petting zoo they had going on, but all of us were just maxed out on activities. I think we both regretted the beers - we were insanely tired Friday night, but all-in-all it was a perfect day.

Saturday was full of Jenny&Stew fun. Sunday we celebrated Father's Day with Meg, Adam, & Mathis at the park where we were occasionally joined by an apparently-un-parented child who enjoyed chucking things at Keith.

It's been a really busy, but fantastic, few days. Tomorrow: back to work for me, first day of work at Allergan for Keith.

I promise to be a better blogirl.

Dogdar

Sometimes I wonder if everyone has a secret superpower that only needs to be discovered to be unleashed. If that is the case, then I think I've discovered Owen's secret power: the ability to detect dogs anywhere. This morning we embarked on our new Sunday morning routine (breakfast at Cinnamon Productions...usually followed by a trip to the park except we'd forgotten the diaper bag and Owen was, to put it mildly, a tad smelly), and at least four or five times Owen would sign dog, and Keith or I would say "Dog? Where?" and we'd look all around us and conclude, " I don't see a dog sweetie." And then moments later we would notice the dog under the table 20 feet away, or the tiny dog on its owner's lap 30 feet away. We call it his "dogdar". This boy is dog obsessed.

Boobs

We're trying to get Owen attached to a stuffed animal - so he's less attached to my boobs. I remember telling my Mom this story, about how he'll stick his hands in my shirt when we're at the grocery store, or bury his face in my chest in the middle of a restaurant. I could pretty much hear her cocked eyebrow and smirk as she said "Mmmm hmmmmmm?" As soon as I had said it I knew I was preaching to the choir: I've heard the story many times of when my Mom took me along with her and my Dad to a business dinner my Dad was having. Apparently the entire time I was trying to get my hand down my Mom's shirt. She was wearing a turtleneck.

At least I know that she knows what I mean, right?

Why it might be good to have three

I forgot to post this text message I got from Jenn on Friday.

"Drove the kids to SD today. They slept for an hour, whined for an hour, and spent the last 20 minutes cracking each other up saying 'I smell like BACON!'"

I remember when Jenn first told me that Ava decided that farts were the funniest thing in the world, and how it happens totally naturally without any instruction from parents (although I must admit that we do laugh when Owen farts - so maybe he will learn that way that it is funny). I think the same is true for finding "I smell like BACON!" funny - in fact, I am pretty sure that if I said that to Keith tonight he would laugh instinctively. Either that or he'd lean over and smell me to make sure. He is, after all, a scientist.

Family Love

Owen and I flew home Saturday and Sunday this long weekend to visit my folks. Because Owen is walking now, I was a bit more apprehensive about the flight; I just wasn't sure if Owen would be willing to sit in a 2x2' space for an hour plus. But after both flights I realized that I need to give people more credit; more often than not people are good, friendly human beings. It is the rare person who rolls their eyes when they're stuck with the middle seat next to a toddler, in fact most people are quite thrilled to see Owen. On the flight to Oakland, I ended up having the best combination for our row of three seats: two grandmothers who were happy to take Owen from me. In fact, one of them, this delightful Russian woman, insisted that I hand over my child and relax. Imagine a thick Russian accent coming from the mouth of a small woman with short spikey dyed-blonde hair and smiling bright blue eyes: "Give him to me. Yes, to me. Give him to me and you sit back and relax." She spent the next 15 minutes showing Owen how to unlock, lower, and bang on the tray table. He was in heaven.



Needless to say both flights went fantastically, as did the entire trip. It was short but packed full of Owen-watching and fun. My Mom and I share a love for watching my boy do...anything. We sit together and watch Owen do whatever he is doing and talk about how cute he is and how great it is to be a Mom. His favorite new past-time at Nonni and Poppa's house: playing with Nonni's gardening implements and squealing with glee at Ozzie, who would offer the occasional soft lick or nudge with his nose to keep Owen satisfied that he was paying attention.



Some good family friends came for a visit on Sunday. John and Lois Rogers are some of the loveliest people I've ever met, and they are the parents of 6 children, one of whom, Molly, is a friend of mine from college. Their youngest, Liz, came along for the visit and brought her family (Steve - husband, Henry - 2.5, Maggie - 8 months) and together we enjoyed a fantastic lunch a la Marcia, then headed to the park for some family fun. Every time I see Liz I think the same thing: "Why do I not talk to this woman EVERY SINGLE DAY?" She really is that great. Needless to say it was a great way to cap off the visit.

Today we've spent with friends (Jenny & Stew) and family (Meg, Adam, Mathis). We babysat Mattie for an hour and a bit, and he and Owen spent most of the time cracking each other up. It's one thing to see a sense of humor emerge in a 14-month old, see him finding things funny on his own. It's another thing entirely to see two kids, 14- and 15-months old finding the same thing funny and doing it over and over again to make each other laugh. That is something entirely fantastic.

Happy Memorial Day everyone!

So NOT right-handed

When Owen was about 3 days old, we took his little orange self into the doctor and told her that he had not peed or pooped since we left the hospital. This was a time of ultimate freak-out for a new Mom and Dad. After visiting the lactation consultants (who thought I had implants), we realized I was so engorged and swollen that, although Owen was nursing well, he was not getting anything from me. He basically hadn't gotten food since he was born. He was horribly jaundiced. We all know everything turned out ok so you can relax. The point of my story - the title, comes soon.

There is a whole lot more to this that we recognize in hindsight that I won't get into here - that his jaundice was relatively preventable had our doctor let us in on what virtually everyone knows (that vacuum extraction causes a bruise that greatly elevates bilirubin & increases the chances for jaundice). The day that we realized that his jaundice was getting serious was also the day that my Mom had to go home to check in on my disabled father. It was also the same day that our cats ate a poisonous plant that someone had given us as a Welcome Owen! gift. The delivery of the "bili pads" (or phototherapy paddles - oops, nope just one, they only delivered ONE of the two) was beautifully timed to coincide with my Mom's flight as well as Keith's panicked dash with two freaked out cats to the vet to get cat EKGs and some kitty charcoal delivered directly to the kitty tummies. This is a day we will both remember clearly forever & it is probably not possible to overstate how horrible it was.

We had been told to make sure to get 2 oz in him every 2 hours to flush out his system. But the jaundice made him very sleepy; feeding him was no easy feat and included putting a cold cloth on his head among other strategies we will refrain from mentioning. His bili levels did not decrease enough: his levels were 22; they start to worry about brain damage around 25. Most kids have some elevation in bili levels, perhaps to around 11, shortly after birth. (I will mention here that a new Mom who is also a neuroscientist should never read what can happen with high bilirubin levels. Especially if you studied the basal ganglia for your Ph.D.) So, we were admitted to the hospital. In all honesty, we were so relieved to go know that he was getting the fluids he needed. So even though he was this tiny baby who was hooked up to monitors and an IV, and even though Keith and I were sleeping on a sofa-chair the width of a mop, we were in high spirits. Plus, I was introduced to the world's most effective breast pump, the details of which I will spare you. Suffice to say, after we returned from the hospital Keith very quickly ordered a postal scale so that we could weigh Owen after each nursing thereafter to make sure that he was getting milk from me.

Home Again

We don't use the scale anymore (well, Keith does: he uses it to weigh out his grains and hops for brewing). Owen is doing just fine, as you all know. But this evening I was carrying him in my left arm and switched him over to my right and could only hold him for about 10 seconds; and even for that time it felt incredibly awkward. My left arm, though - it's a champ. I can hold his 22.5-lb frame for a LONG time and do just fine. Whenever I register how heavy he's getting and how hard it is to hold him for very long, I remember getting that scale, and the relief we both felt when we could measure when he ate two whole ounces.

UNICEF

This blog is generally about the cute antics of our kiddo. Today I was reading a story on CNN about a 3-year old girl in Ethiopia who weighs less than 10lbs. There has been a horrific drought and food shortage; experts estimate that 120,000 kids will die within a month. I don't mean to be a downer - I know my friends & family come to this blog for some smiles and funny stories, but I also want to maintain perspective on what a wonderful life we have. These stories have always upset me but honestly, it's so much more heartbreaking for me now that I have Owen and think about someone else's baby having to go through that, and how lucky we are to live where we do.

I'm putting the link to UNICEF (United Nations Childrens Fund) in the links section. It's so easy to donate - it can be a one time donation, or a monthly donation, and they make it so easy to set up. I'm not going to send out a group email - I'll just get you innocent folks who happen upon my blog! I figured I spend so much on toys, clothes, sippy cups, whatever for Owen - sometimes a little perspective is a good thing for an American Mama. We are all so blessed and lucky to have what we have.

Monkey cups

Owen and I took a trip to target on Friday. Anyone who knows me at all knows that Target to me is like a shoe store to Carrie Bradshaw. (I’ve always been pretty easy to please, I know.) We went there specifically for paper towels but of course it’s impossible for me to resist anything cute and kid related. Steph & Eddie got Owen a monkey cup with a straw for his birthday (along with other goodies) and he loves it. I grabbed another couple of adorable cups – a crab, a fish – and after he flirted with the check-out girl for a bit, we headed home. When we got home I realized that Owen’s assorted cups are completely taking over our already-puny kitchen counter. It was time to clear out some space in the cupboards and something had to go. So the battle begins: at what point do we get rid of our margarita glasses? Do we really need to keep any shot glasses? I'm not fooling myself into envisioning a night where Keith and I toss back some body shots after Owen goes to sleep. It just isn't a very good fit with our world anymore. After all, it wasn’t so long ago that our soon-to-be brother-in-law Adam proclaimed with complete sincerity on New Years Eve: “Hey guys, let’s get totally BUZZED!” A very genuine indication of how often we get to hit the sauce nowadays.

Although I like to think there will be a time when we’ve got some friends over and we are celebrating with some nice, icy, tart margaritas…I just can’t see us sitting around with another couple and working up the energy to move the cereal boxes out of the way to the doors to the cabinet above the fridge so I can reach up to grab the dusty blender. Now I register that we put the blender, Peach Schnapps, and Cachaça up above the refrigerator for a reason: we’re never going to use those things ever again. It’s fine with me, too – my husband makes some of the best beer around.

Happy Daddy Day!

Yesterday was Mother's Day - my second. It still seems weird that I'm a Mom - all those other women with the gigantic bags with readily accessible kleenex and cute small people running around them - those are Moms. I still consider myself just a person who happens to have a kid.

I was awoken on Mother's Day by a tiny finger touching the tip of my nose, gently but persistently. I opened my eyes and when my eyes met Owen's he squealed in glee, "DADDY!" We're still working on the Mommy/Daddy distinction, but for the Mother's Day greeting it seemed particularly fantastic.




The day was lovely; relaxed, nothing in particular on the agenda. Owen and I took a nice nap later in the day, then went to the mall to check out the Babystyle closing sale. At some point Owen decided he was done in the stroller, so I carried him in one arm and pushed the stroller with the other, carefully maneuvering around the crowds of teenagers who are clearly going to hell for not spending the day with their mothers. I started to register that I am becoming invisible, that when people see us they see Owen's big curious eyes and friendly smile. I'm his pedestal. I am one lucky pedestal.

Our Wee Happy Sean Connery

One thing that all of us who love and take care of Owen agree upon is that it is fun to ask him questions. We do it at home constantly. His daycare ladies LOVE it. Without fail, we get a "Yesh!" in reply. Owen's "yes" is something I'm hoping to catch 1,000 times on video tape, and I think we're in prime season for it. Everything, lately, is "yesh".

Do you want some milk? "Yesh!"
Do you know how much I love you? "Yesh!"
Do you want to go outside? "Yesh!"
Do you want some dinner? "Yesh!"
Are you the super cutest kid in the world? "Yesh!"

Keith calls it his Sean Connery yes.

We are certainly enjoying it while it's here. Too soon it will all be no.

Owen at 3 years:
Do you want some milk? "No Mommy. JUICE!"
Owen at 5 years:
Do you know how much I love you? "Look Mommy, a TRAIN!"
Owen at 7 years:
Do you want to go outside? "Mooooom! I'm playing XBox!"
Owen at 11 years:
Do you want some dinner? "I'm not hungry."
Owen at 15 years:
Are you the super cutest kid in the world? "Ugh, Mom, stop."

So, as you can imagine, I'm very much digging this cute agreeable boy.

Tubby signing

Last night in the tub Owen signed "please" when he wanted some toys from his wall-mounted frog (if that didn't make any sense, I understand). Of course, this signing required prompting, but only minimal. I can't even possibly put into words how freaking adorable it was to see my little naked boy covered in bubbles smiling at me and signing "please". I think I went a little overboard with my excitement, but at least I think he registered that it was a good thing to do. This weekend he signed "banana" when he wanted Keith to hand him some banana and both of us almost fell out of our chairs with excitement. There is something so thrilling about communicating with our kiddo - whether it's a sign for "banana", his saying "Daddy!" when we're approaching Keith's work to pick him up, or whether it's catching his eye and sharing a giggle over something we both found amusing - that understanding that we're sharing a moment of humor. He's such an amazingly happy, curious, and snuggly kid. It's so hard sometimes to imagine having another - how could any other baby compare?

Dooce

Last Friday, one of my favorite bloggers, Heather Armstrong, of Dooce.com (link is at the left of this page) posted her Month 51 letter to her daughter Leta. Heather has posted letters to Leta every month of Leta's life (except Month 50 - addressed in the letter) and I found this to be one of the best ones I've read yet - it is about Mommy Bloggers in general, and Leta in particular. The blog, Dooce.com, inspired me to write regular private letters to Owen (which I do), and later, to start blogging (which you know I do if you're reading this). Her honesty and sense of humor are so inspiring to me. Worth a read.

We don't much stand for ceremony 'round here

Today Keith turned twenty fifteen. We worked all day, inhaled our dinner at BJs with a squirmy 13-month-old, then hit Bev Mo for the traditional Birthday beer run (what? you don't have that?). Owen crashed on the way home so Keith and I were free to celebrate old skoool style: we went home to laundry and dishes - oh, hot hot birthday fun, you are ours to be had. After these events, I made my dear husband a birthday cake from a Betty Crocker microwaveable dessert I found for sale last week at the grocery store, sang Happy Birthday to You (the smelly monkey version) with the gigantic colorful "1" candle we forgot to use for Owen's pie smashed into Betty Crocker's creation, then ate the "cake" myself because Keith was not hungry. Don't let anyone tell you celebration and romance are dead, my friends. They're alive and kicking here at Casa de Luhrs'. Excuse me while I go watch some TV in my jammies with the Birthday Boy.

Sprinkler days

When driving to work the other day I noticed a sign along a parkway that read “Grass under renovation.” The sign was dutifully pegged into the lawn every 50 feet or so, as though people would drive by and take serious issue with some browning on a lawn. (Come to think of it, this is Irvine we’re talking about – of course someone would take issue with a brown lawn. In Berkeley people would probably take issue with a very green lawn). Irvine is very particular about how its grass looks – it waters regularly and with great gusto – this city is notorious for not only the ridiculous daytime sprinkling (where most of the water evaporates soon after it comes out of the sprinkler head) but also the generous watering of the sidewalks in the process. Seeing this amusing “Grass under renovation” sign took me way back, to August 1999.

Very soon before we started dating, Keith and I were at a barbeque at a community picnic spot in graduate student housing. It was a late summer afternoon, gorgeous warm weather, bordering on hot. At around 3pm the sprinklers went on. I had had a few beers, I was happy, excited to be spending time with friends, particularly in Keith’s company. I took off my shoes, walked over to the lawn, and walked around in the water coming out of the sprinkler. It felt glorious on my legs, and I imagined I looked relaxed, happy, carefree. I knew Keith was watching me, and I imagined he was thinking “What a fun person to go running through the sprinklers, just like a kid!”

I came back over to where everyone was gathered, talking. I approached Keith who was standing with another graduate student from my department. This other grad student looked at me, his lip slightly curled in disgust, and said “You know that’s reclaimed water, right?” It was then that I looked around and noticed the myriad of signs saying “Reclaimed Water – do not drink” around the lawns. I noticed the iridescent sheen on my bare legs where the water – the lip curling reclaimed water – had coated my skin. I noticed the slightly metallic smell I now carried. The image I had of my sprinkler play, of a carefree young woman enjoying the sprinklers on a warm day now was completely shattered, and in its place I now saw a naive grad student trying too hard to look carefree and happy, getting coated in metallic and who-knows-what-else scented reclaimed water. I didn't even really know what it meant that the water was reclaimed - reclaimed from where? - only that it had to be disgusting no matter where it came from. I looked up, trying to hide the mortification I was experiencing. Keith – bless his heart - smiled warmly at me, shrugged, and said “Well, at least it looked refreshing.”

Working Mommy, Part I

I named this entry "part I" because I know it will be topic I return to repeatedly throughout the life of this blog. A well-known urban legend suggests that men think about sex on average every 7 seconds. I am confident that moms who work outside of the home think about their decision to put their child in daycare at least as often as that.

Let me say at the outset that I love my job. It never occurred to me or to Keith that one of us would stay home once we had a child - that is, until after Owen arrived. Then the thought of returning to work, to my dream job, scared the crap out of me. At this point, I can happily say that Owen is absolutely thriving at his school/daycare, and that I am glad we made the decision that we did. Even still, it's hard to find a perfect balance where I feel everything and everyone is getting enough of my attention. I miss my kiddo most of the day. I often leave work feeling like I've gotten nothing done. I imagine both frustrations will always be present.

Owen had a fever yesterday morning, so I stayed home with him. In the late morning, Owen and I went to the park where it was positively swarming with Moms and their kids. The Moms all knew each other, were all relaxing and chatting together on benches while their kids played. It was clear this was their 11-1pm routine every day. I felt so out of place, feeling like I was somehow playing hookey, and I imagined I looked bewildered too - I was half expecting one of them to come up and show me how to use the infant swing with Owen. It felt so foreign to be at the park in the middle of the day on a Tuesday.

Later in the day my boss called me to check in from a conference in the Cayman Islands (rough, isn't it?) not knowing that I was at home. When I told him where I was, he said "Owen is sick again?" I know he didn't mean it like that. My boss is one of the coolest people I know, and has not once insinuated that my work-life balance is out of whack. Although he is patently incapable of turning off his science brain, he is often the first person to suggest that I relax about balancing work and Mommyhood.

But however innocently his comment was intended, it brought up a whole cascade of feelings that I struggle with. Guilt, sadness, defensiveness, exhaustion. Owen has gotten sick regularly - natural for a kid in daycare during the winter. I do register that I've missed at least one day a month of work since coming back from maternity leave. I wonder if I will ever feel that each part of my life is getting enough of my attention. I used to know that I was great at at least one thing - work. Now I question whether I'm doing anything better than 50%, ever.

I am sure it will get easier over time, as Owen becomes more independent, and begins school. We hope that we teach Owen that it is not important that he follow in our footsteps to science, but that he choose to do something he really loves, where he feels that he is contributing something to the world. If I did not genuinely believe that my job is important, and that I am still able to show my child that he is loved - treasured - I wouldn't be a working Mommy. Regardless, I know that it will always be a decision I reassess and redefend - probably only to myself.

Seriously?

I think this might be the most racist playset I've ever seen! Can you see that the white guy (who came with the car) is holding a cell phone and credit cards? And the darker fellow is holding an oil can and rag (oh, and he came with a tow truck - not pictured).

Owen loves it though - vroom vroom!

If you click on the picture it opens larger.

My husband rocks

More on our awesome Saturday soon - maybe tomorrow if I have time. It included a fantastic day at the Wild Animal park with Auntie and Unc, and then a fabulous evening at Stone Brewery with my two boys, where we tasted the best beer EVER (um. it wasn't a Stone, but their beer is awesome too).

For now, an exerpt from the drive home tonight:

Me: ZZZzzzzzz [in the backseat]
Keith: This sounds like it was originally a Neil Young song.
Me: Huh? Oh...mmmyeah. It does.
Keith: It's a cool song.
Me: Yeah, originally Gary something. Mad world?
Keith: Yeah, Mad world. It was that song in that creepy Jake Gyllenhall movie. [he says it like "gil-en-hall"]
Me: I think it's pronounced "Jill-en-hall".
Keith: [ignores this] Is he related to Maggie Gil-en-hall?
Me: Yeah, it's his sister.
Keith: She kind of reminds me of you.
Me: Yeah?
Keith: Yeah. She's got that scrappy hotness.
Me: Awesome.
Keith: Yeah, like, she's cute, but I wouldn't want to go up against her in a fight.
Me: I'll take that.

So we're supposed to feed them?

Tonight I would normally be hanging out with Jenn (but she totally abandoned me; something about "wonderful family she never gets to see" and "once-a-year trip to Disneyland with the kids" and "blah blah blah selfish") but instead invited myself along on Daddy/Son night. Their routine is to go the park and do all the things Owen loves to do that make Mommy nervous for no good reason.

We got home and Owen cruised straight over to the patio door, stared longingly at his new trike and started banging the door to get to it. We offered him some food but NO, he wanted the BIKE. So, we decided to head to the park, maybe grabbing food on the way there. It appears we should have tried harder and that it's best to feed the kid BEFORE he gets cranky and unsatisfiable (yes, it's a word - check it out on Dictionary.com you doubters!).

The rest of the evening consisted of a frantic trip to El Pollo Loco to get him some food he didn't want to eat at the restaurant, and to the park where he wanted to eat but NOT chicken, and NOT beans, and NOT mac n' cheese, and NOT tortilla, he wanted something else, and then after a pathetic 15 minutes of offering up any possible selection of FOOD and FUN and SNUGGLES we were heading back home with us pushing the trike and carrying him because now he didn't want to RIDE the trike he wanted to WALK and interact with all the very nice people passing us in the park...but he can't walk on his own yet so it would have taken 15.3346 years to get home.

He decided about 1/2 way home that AT THAT VERY MOMENT he wanted some nursies and wanted them NOW (flash backs to a 5 week old baby) so we stopped to nurse on some random steps to someone's house and that sort of worked for about two minutes while I'm trying to shield my boobs from the kids walking down the street, and then we're back to carrying a big bag of dinner, pushing a trike, holding a 23-pound back-arching hungry child and...yeah, we feel like stupid assholes. As soon as we get home I put some yogurt and applesauce in a bowl for him and he gobbles it down, giggles, smiles, hugs, delivers slobbery kisses, then crashes. Poor kiddo! Sometimes, even with the best of intentions, we don't always get it right. Sometimes we realize that it would all be much easier if we were mind-readers, and that teaching Owen to sign "more" "dog" "milk" "shoe" "hat" and "ball" barely bridges the communication gulf between 30something parents and a 13-month old.

At least I think he knows is that we're always trying and he is loved.

And, at least we got it right for ourselves tonight after he fell asleep: we easily polished off a delicious bottle of Preston. Thank all that is holy for Wine Clubs.

Off to the races!

For anyone who loves Owen's unique crawl, enjoy it while it's here. He's almost walking now. We've been warned that this accomplishment comes with a twinge of sadness, a farewell to something that is uniquely a baby behavior. This is true for us, and perhaps moreso because Owen has always had his own way of getting around. Farewell, sweet crawl.

From now on: no covert ice cream ops

I was never a big fan of ice cream when I was younger. I actually was totally abnormal in my relative dislike for ice cream and pizza (For example, in high school I dated a guy who worked at an ice cream parlor and never once asked him for free ice cream. And when we would go to Round Table Pizza after a softball game I'd get a ham sandwich). But those pregnant women + ice cream love affairs are no joke, and pretty much as soon as I saw the extra line on the pregnancy test, I was craving ice cream constantly. Keith and I joke that Owen is 50% tangerine and 50% ice cream - my two favorite pregnancy foods.



Ever since then, going for a little stroll after dinner to get ice cream has become a lovely once or twice a week excursion. And for better or for worse, Owen loves ice cream. The Baskin Robbins taster spoons are perfectly Owen-sized, and I will share bits of my treat with him (I'd like to take this opportunity to register my complaint that Keith only ever gets pralines n' cream, and because of the nuts he never has to share any of his treat). So I'll give Owen a bite and a few seconds later my little bird is cheeping at me with his mouth wide-open waiting for more goodies. This is all well and good if we go earlier in the day on a weekend. But during the week we like to take a walk after dinner, and because we're hoping Owen goes to bed sometime oh, before midnight, we don't want to give him sugar. (For us this is not a problem - I mean, please. We have a 13-month old. We are still so ridiculously sleep deprived. Even after eating ice cream chased with an espresso I could probably fall asleep holding a jackhammer with a monkey on my head).


So last night around 7:15, we go to BR for some tasty treats and we register that we're going to have to make this a covert op somehow. Keith, thankfully, decides that he is full from dinner and doesn't want any ice cream. So the entire way home, I'm hunched over my ice cream like Golem with the ring, trying to gobble it down slyly while Keith is distracting Owen like "What? There's nothing to see here HEY LOOK! Birds! A tree! Nope, no one is eating ice cream in our vicinity." It kind of took the joy out of the evening walk+ice cream routine. I guess it's ice cream trips on weekends or not at all.