And there was much rejoicing . . .

I love the smell of uniforms in the morning (to paraphrase Apocalypse Now). School is back in session for the Older Girl and the livin' is easy over at our place. I don't even mind filling out 27 different forms every night for two weeks because having two kids around during the day feels like a vacation! And next week, the Boy starts preschool, so for two mornings a week it will just be Baby Girl and me rattling around the house. Whatever shall I do with my time? I'm sure I could employ myself industriously with house cleaning and other maintenance, but let's face it, I'm going to grab a fancy coffee -- you know, the kind you can't order and juggle out to the car while refereeing a poking deathmatch between two kids and hauling a 7 ton infant carrier over your throbbing forearm (at least not without spilling the entire $4 cup on the floor of the van); and after I breeze out of the coffee shop with my solitary child, I may stop to do an errand (but I'll most likely forget), and then head home to read other people's blogs (I'm working on a Blogroll of my faves). I might think about putting Baby Girl in the stroller and getting in a brisk walk, but if I was the betting kind, I would put my money on me getting a fix of my newest addiction, a rousing game of Text Twist. One of my oldest friends turned me on to this (gracias, Holmes!) and it is every English major/word freak's dream. (If you'd like to linguistically torture yourself in 2 minute increments, then check it out: www.addictinggames.com/texttwist.html)

But lest you think that I am dancing with glee over outsourcing my children, I have to admit that I always feel like this time of year is bittersweet. So many people have told me to make sure I enjoy this time with the children because it passes so quickly, and so I always seem to have a little hourglass in my mind that is constantly draining. I can feel the changes in my children like I feel my own heartbeat; it's not just that Older Girl has long ago lost her baby roundness and downy curls, it's that they have been replaced by a set of features that will be the same when she is an adult. The Boy has gone from my lap to the sharing circle at school in a single bound. Even Baby Girl, who is so new to the world, has begun to push herself away with her arms and legs. It's centrifugal motion of the most personal degree -- and it kills me.
So while I revel in the peace and quiet, and I crow about how much the kids are learning, you'll know my secret fear -- that their time with me is draining faster with each new school year. And that's something that even the fanciest coffee can't assuage.

Happy Birthday to my Boy

So my little guy turns 4 today . . . I can hardly believe that all that time has passed in the blink of an eye (but I try to remember just how fast it goes when I am awake at 2:30 with Baby Girl!)
It was right around this time four years ago that my friend Jenn broke my water and the Boy made his precipitous descent into the world (and yes, before you ask, Jenn is an actual doctor who happens to be a really good friend -- I'm not in some kind of Do-it-Yourself Birth Club or anything!). I can remember every sound of the delivery room; every direction from the nurses and Jenn; every whisper of love and encouragement from my husband. What I can't remember is the pain. I know everyone says that, but it's true. From his first cries he has brought us an untold happiness that has surpassed any pain or fear or expectation of what another child would or would not add to our lives. The love just multiplied exponentially; I heard once that love is like a candle, it is undimmed even when other candles are lit from its flame. His little candle has made our home glow even more brightly.
He is his father's buddy, his partner on the testosterone raft in this sea of estrogen. He is my little love, the only one in the house who will still volunteer to do boring errands just to be with me. He is his sisters' comedian (and tormenter, at times). He is impish and serious, funny and somber, independent and shy. He wants nothing but to love and be loved (oh, and to amass the largest collection of Thomas the Tank Engine this side of the Mississippi). And for all this, everything that he is, we are entirely grateful.
Happy Birthday, Son -- I love you more than you'll ever know.

Milk Made

So my little Baby Girl is not as little as I thought! We trucked her over to the doctor for her 2 month checkup, and ensuing boatload of shots, and found out that she is eclipsing both her sister and brother in growth. She weighs 13.6 pounds and she is 25.5 inches tall! That's a full inch and a half taller than her sister at that age! (Older Girl is now 7 and somewhere in the vicinty of 8 feet tall) We are thinking WNBA . . . or at least a full scholarship . . . no pressure, Baby Girl . . .

Hostess with the Mostess

Ok, so call me crazy, but sometimes I miss being pregnant. I know you are thinking, "Woman, you have a 2 month old baby and 2 other kids! You are busier than a one legged man in an ass kicking contest -- get thee to a nunnery!" But I still do miss it -- sometimes it's intense in a phantom-limb kind of way and other times it's wistful and faint as a sigh.
That's not to say that I want to be pregnant again right now or even if I'm sure that I want to have any more children, but the memory of the sheer physical act of being pregnant haunts me. I tend to be hyper-analytical of every thought that flits through my mind -- well, maybe not every thought. I mean, how much thought can you give to, say, Paris Hilton's absurdly meteoric rise to fame without becoming bitterly cynical? But I digress . . .
I've been really blessed with great pregnancies -- not without their aches and pains, but remarkably uncomplicated in any major way. And since I am addicted to all the labor and delivery shows on Discovery Health Network, and my hubby actually delivers babies, I know just about all the really terrible things that can go wrong -- and that makes me incredibly thankful. I always tell my husband that I would have been a great asset to him in an Ice Age - able to pop out healthy kids and nicely insulated with a layer of fat to keep me going. He usually just shakes his head at me and smiles in his calm, non-judgmental way.
It's just that I feel so productive, in the truest sense of the word. It makes me feel like I'm really good at something -- silly, I know, since I don't really have any control over most of the gestation process. And since the first two came well past their due dates, (Baby Girl wasn't given the chance, I was induced on my due date) and the Boy would crawl back in right now if he could, I like to imagine that I made a good, comfy home for them from the very beginning. I loved the taut, solid roundness of my belly and the special, secret feeling of just knowing life.
(And let's not forget to mention the fact that I don't have to suck in my stomach when I am pregnant, even after eating a couple (handfuls) of Oreos. Oh, how I miss that . . .)

But I know that I am certainly not prepared for another pregnancy, and the truth is that Baby Girl may be the last (although I never say never). And I seem to have my fair share of troubles after the children make their entrance. No matter how many vitamins I take and how much exercise I do, I've learned that I can pretty much count on wrangling with some kind of post-partum depression, thank you very much Tom Cruise -- but that is for another post (can't wait for that one, right?)
For now, I will just have to look fondly (and surreptiously) at other round bellies and try to remember.

Pluto, We Hardly Knew You

Oh, the humanity! Poor Pluto is no longer a "real" planet -- just a dwarf planet. A little part of me is sad to know that something I learned so long ago is no longer considered valid. But secretly I will always think of Pluto as a planet, so take that International Astronomical Union.
Besides, what will I do with the brain space I've devoted to "My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pies"? Now there is no need for the "Pies" part. Oh, Pluto -- you've been robbed!

The Sisterhood of the Fat Pants

Dear God, someone please tell me that they, too, tuck their abdomen into their pants every morning (before I have to up the ante on my Zoloft). I know I have a beautiful 2 month old daughter to use as a crutch, but I am mourning the stubborn wobbly parts of me that refuse to return from whence they came. Besides, I'm pretty sure I can't use the baby as an excuse forever -- she may want to go to college some day, and then where am I?
I weigh less now than I did before I got pregnant with Baby Girl -- not much less, but let's not split hairs, people -- and my pants still don't fit. I suspect that it has less to do with weight, than with the total tectonic shift of my bones and ligaments after human #3 hit the exit ramp on the Mommy 101. I used to be Pangaea -- well, maybe not Pangaea exactly, but certainly not the loosey, goosey arrangement of continents that we've got going on now.
But of course, the extra weight can't help. I have a slight problem with baked goods (if by slight you mean all crazy-eyed, shakin', jonesin' for some super refined, trans fatty goodness), so I have started a diet. This diet is one I have done successfully in the past, but the problem this time around is that I just don't want to do it. I want to lay around and cram my pie-hole with Twix bars -- is that a bad thing? Well, it is if I want to fit in my clothes, which I desperately do, so it's off to diet-land I go.
Meanwhile, I keep shoe-horning myself into my old pants, which involves a whole lot of cursing and very little breathing. So if you see a woman in the mall with 3 kids and a little jelly roll of stomach hanging over the sides of her jeans, be kind -- it's probably me, and I used to be Pangaea!

Feels Like The First Time . . .

So here I am in the blogosphere, despite my technological ineptitude. I've wanted to blog for a while, but it came down to a "Pee or get off the pot" decision (as Dad used to say).
There will most likely not be any epiphanies, cataclysmic discoveries, or philosophical renderings on this site -- we'll all be lucky if the posts are coherent. But there will be wealth of anecdotes about my children, my family, and myself, if that catches your fancy. So bear with me . . . or move on to the next blog!