This one's for Jefe

The title of this post refers to my good friend (and probably brother from a past life) Jeff, who -- after months ... nay, years of my keeping this blog -- has finally deemed it worthy of reading and therefore has added it to his Google Reader and commanded me to blog more often. I briefly considered making this post with a picture of Wilder flipping Jeff the bird, but decided that would just give those who love me one more reason to feel great disappointment at my juvenile behavior. Well, that and I figured we'd get a call from daycare about W's indiscriminate use of rude finger gestures.

So anyway, Jerry and I have been on a vacation this week. In Dallas. I'm told there's some crazy term called a "staycation" that's destined for the 2011 Webster's list of stupid new words that everybody's using, but saying that -- staycation -- just makes me cry a little into my coffee (cough, beer). So we'll stick with vacation.

It's been a good one so far. Wilder has discovered his inner Scarlett O'Hara and will literally sit in front of the mirror crying and observing the drama from all angles to see which is his best. And Hunter has unearthed his inner volume AND pitch control. But in between contrived conniption fits and brain-freezing bloodcurdling screams, it's been a damn fine vacation. Hold on ... I have to go pop another pill.

Not much else to report. On a less sarcastic note, the love between Wilder and Hunter continues to grow. There is lots of hugging, kissing, sniffing ("Baby smells so GOOD!") and general drooling on one another going on. I know one day they'll pummel each other to bits, but for now it's one big Wilder-Hunter Love Fest, and it does a mama's heart good.

Jerry and I are trying to get in shape, swimming and biking and -- I am SO psyched to report -- we recently bought an elliptical machine that will be delivered tomorrow. Inspired by our friends Chris and Bree, we'll be doing the Muddy Buddy this year for our 5th wedding anniversary. It doesn't really sound too difficult, but we've decided to train anyway. After a few months of swimming, we're both in better shape than we have been in quite some time, but it can always get better. Might as well fight middle age with every ounce of muscle we've got, I say.

Tomorrow night we have a very rare night away from home. Our good friend and saint Judy is coming over to care for our monkeys, err boys, and we've got a pool-facing suite at the Belmont Hotel here in Dallas. We're going to swim, eat, drink and revel in the quiet. It'll be a nice last hurrah before we return to work, and I specifically return to next few weeks of what I can only assume will be hell as we're supposed to launch the new website the end of September and we'll be going through training, quality analysis and testing. I have a very deep sense of foreboding about this. If I don't blog much in September, forgive me (or, if you're Jeff, piss off!).

On that note, here's some recent photos from the month of August.



Scarlett, err ... Wilder has developed a little shoe fetish. This is but one photo of him walking around the house with my shoes on. I have more. Don't make me use them, son.


Oh, wait! Here's another!


Happy Hunter!


This photo is totally overexposed, but I love it because it highlights those amazing Hunter eyes. Wow.


Jerry calls this one "NINJA WILDER!" I think I was tackled a millisecond after I clicked the button.


The community garden. It has really flourished and they're getting ready to double the plots. We're psyched for our fall crop.


Wilder picking banana peppers, which was our most successful bounty this season.


Yep, they really do like each other. For now.


One more of 'lil Hunter

Cheers friends. XO, k.

Couldn't pick just one

So I know there's a lot of takes on the same photo here. But oh, I so love pictures of Wilder and Hunter together. Not only are they developing this cute little relationship, but it never ceases to amaze and perplex me how different they look from one another. For the first time in these photos, I think you can see that Hunter looks quite like me. Actually, he looks quite like my own dad, Grandpa Jon, who I think will be quite happy about that (yay Pop!).

I'm off to peel Jerry out of Wilder's room (we're both so tired tonight that he fell asleep rocking Hunter to sleep and I fell asleep in the "big bed" with Wilder watching cartoons; then I woke Jerry up to lie Hunter down and he crept into Wilder's room to say g'nite and I think he's passed out in there now. We need an early-to-bed night.)

Here are the pics:


This is the photo where I think you can most see Hunter's resemblance to my family, particularly my Pop. Also, check out the grasp Hunter has on Wilder's shirt. He LOVES to grab handfuls of Wilder's hair or clothing, much to W's dismay.


There often seems to be a hint of bemusement in Hunter's eyes to me. As if he's saying: These people are strange, and just how the hell did I end up here anyway?


Another good H face: Agggghh Mama! Help me!


And finally, here's our littlest one on his own. I think his T-shirt says it well -- he is so adorable. And I think here you can see a glimpse of the little boy he will become. And seriously, could you not eat those cheeks up over and over again?

G'nite blog readers. Love to all. k.

Humor: Making the hard times easier since ... well, forever ago

Sometimes I do things knowing that I'll forget I've done them, but also knowing that my future self will get a kick out of them when I discover them again. Yes, I crack myself up. If I didn't, l probably would have offed myself ages ago.

So I've gone from pumping twice a day at work to once a day. Soon I will go to no times a day because it's just TOO. DAMN. HARD. to keep up with it and still, you know, get the job done (Translation: Keep a job.). So it was with some degree of satisfaction that I went to my iCal today to delete the second pumping reminder I set up for myself every single day (the very fact that I should have to remind myself to empty my breasts of milk should tell you just how crazy my job gets sometimes — "hmmm, my boobs feel like they're in a vice grip and my shirt is a little damp down there ... what the? ohhh, I guess I shouldn't have zoned out on e-newsletters for the last three hours.")

So as I deleted the reminders, I got this message: "You have invited people to this event" ... and then something about how those people would be notified about the event no longer taking place. "Hmmm," I thought. "Now who would I have invited to join me while I'm the cow version of myself?" (Not that the whole office hasn't invited themselves in at one point or another to talk to me about, shudder, marketing or, you know, whether I've made the coffee yet or not.)

So who DID I invite to my pumping sessions? "My boobs."

Best laugh I've had today.

Potty training: a glimmer of hope

I don't talk about potty training too much on the blog. Mostly because it really hasn't happened to any significant degree yet. So far, the dialogue has consisted of questions like: "Wanna go potty on the potty?" Answered usually one of two ways: "No" or "noooooooooo!!!!!!"

Until this past week. I finally got motivated and made a potty training sticker chart. I bought super kickass stickers (to a 2-year-old boy anyway): Speed racer ones, Cars ones, etc. I put the chart up in Wilder's room and showed him the stickers. Suddenly, he was willing to at least sit on the potty. First with pants up then, after he informed me it was "not scary mama," (I think he'd previously thought some green-eyed turd monster lived in there)with pants down. He was even trying to pull his own pants up and down, down going better than up. Up usually results in a wedgie of mind-boggling proportions or, my personal favorite, he front-side business end being covered up but his ass hanging out for the world to see.

Anyway, so we sat. Despite much encouragement to pee or poop, he just sat, unrolled toilet paper, flushed and yelled "bye water! byeeeeeee!" as if it was embarking on a trip overseas, not to return for months and months. If he'd had a hankie, I'm sure he would have waved it.

So no actually "potty" yet, but still we press on. This morning, I asked Wilder if he wanted to go pee or poop on the pot. Noooo, he said.

And then, there it was, our little glimmer of hope. The dog throwing the proverbial bone to his long-suffering, aromatically offended, butt-wiping parents ...:

"Not YET, Mama."

Not yet? Not YET????? Surely this means, that at some point in the future -- though I'm willing to admit in Wilder's mind it could be when he's 47 -- he plans to go on the potty.

Thank you oh lords of potty training. Thank you.