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.

The house of brotherly love

A few photos from the last few days:

 

Hunter in his exersaucer. He's growing like a weed!

 

Wilder climbed onto the table to be close to Hunter and give him his bink. For now, at least, he really loves his baby brother.

 

Here he is crushing ... err, I mean, hugging Hunter. He learned to pin his hands down after Hunter twice grabbed deathgrip-handfuls of Wilder's hair.

Toothiness ...

This post is purely for Hunter's future self's information:

Honey, you cut your first tooth on Sunday, July 27, 2008. One step closer to real food!!

PS. You were characteristically tough about it ... not much fussing. You did, however, fuss quite a bit after you pooped your drawers on the way to TCBY and we didn't realize it until we got home. Pain: You can handle it. Sitting in poo: not so much.

Some photos of the boys TK soon.

My new best friend

On Fridays, I stay home with my boys. They're a handful, and I'm usually exhausted by late afternoon, but I'm finding more and more that Fridays are just magic days. In particular, lately Wilder seems to regard me as just the coolest thing since sliced bread. Which is a far cry from the "go away mamas!!" of a couple months ago.

Today, for example, Wilder and I started the day by watching "The Land Before Time" while Hunter snoozed. Wilder ran and got us two pudding cups and two spoons and it was so cute and sweet that, even though it was 8 a.m., I couldn't say no.

At lunch (again, Hunter was napping) we had a picnic on a blanket in the sunroom. We built "ships" out of Legos.

After his nap, we went to the sprayground (Wilder calls it the "waterfall") and then quickly visited the adjoining playground. Hunter was all smiles until he crapped all over himself and me. Then lots of boo-hooing until I went and stood by the sprayground pumps (loud!) and the noise lulled him to sleep.

Then the boys and I drove around our neighborhood, just for something to do, looking at houses. Our new 'hood is pretty well established and it's pretty cool what some of the people here have done with their homes/yards. So we took 30 minutes or so to explore. Hunter napped. Wilder yapped at me happily. I voyeured. Perfect.

Then we all tumbled into the house and into the "big bed" to watch cartoons and let Hunter nurse. Jerry came home, we had dinner and then Wilder and I walked to the park to play and kick the soccer ball around. I let him stay until well past his bedtime. He met a new friend and had so much fun, happily chattering to me all the way home.

I just wanted to write about this day because, for me, it was near nirvana. Happy sighs ... happy sighs.

The coolest website I found today ...

One of the coolest part of my new job as web editor — when the new site launches anyway — is a little something we call Link Lounge, which basically means I'll get to surf the internet a good portion of the day looking for interesting, funny, profane and downright useful stuff. Right now I'll need to change the links daily, so right now I'm trying to build a library of sites that I can go back to again and again.

Today, here's the most fun site I've found so far. It's so pretty and so whimsical ... I love it:

Small Magazine

Click on Small Spaces and look at those swings! Wilder would die with pleasure to have either one of those.

Speaking of Wilder being happy, this weekend he will be. We have — count 'em! — TWO birthday parties to go to. One on Saturday and one on Sunday that I just found out about. Since he pretty much wanders around the house saying "happy birthday" and yelling "Party, mama! Party!!" ... he'll be so pleased.

Oh my achin' back

Hunter had his 4-month checkup today. He's healthy and strong and getting ready to push through a couple teeth. He had four shots, hollered bloody murder while getting them and then was done by the time the nurse was finished band-aiding him. Tough little dude.

So, yeah, about that back ... it's aching because he is:

18 lbs., 5 oz. and 27.5 inches tall. Off the charts for height. I think he's going to be tall like Jerry and built more like my dad, whom I've often referred to as being built like a brick shithouse. Perfect for rugby. Or football. Or watercolors ... whatever makes him happy. Really.

Here's a recent pic:


He continues to be a mellow and happy baby. He rolled over a couple days ago and is now quite happily exploring all the possibilities that increased mobility can provide. Sometimes I lie him down only to come back a few minutes later and he's spun himself around and is halfway turned over. He's also developed a deathgrip to beat all deathgrips. Which is great, except when it's my boob he's got in his killer clenches. YEEEEEEouch!!

Wilder has returned to a sweet stage. He takes care of me these days, bringing me snacks to share with him and wanting to cuddle with me watching "TB (tv) in the big bed!" as often as possible, often imploring Jerry to "GO AWAY Papa." Luckily, Jerry thinks it's pretty cool that Wilder wants just-mama time. Good man that Jer. :-)

Well, I hear the little one protesting the mama-imposed nap. Aren't shots supposed to make a baby sleepy? This one ... not so much.

Hunter's first video!

Our littlest boy has discovered he can blow bubbles. And boy does he like to show off his new skill.



The background noise is Wilder enjoying his bath. We have not, though it might sound like it, adopted a wild monkey.

Hope you enjoy!

Our weekend? Craptacular!

Not much to report from this past weekend. For me, at least. I was wrapped up in stomach cramps and, err, other assorted gastrointestinal distress for most of it. Make that two crap weekends in a row.

Jerry probably would want me to point out that he picked up my slack. And did a damn fine job at that. In addition to having to endure my colorful stories of lavatory adventure, he also had to clean poop off a couch (Wilder's) and puke off the carpet (Betty's).

Man, the fun NEVER ends in this household, I'm telling you!

So we're keeping our fingers crossed for this coming weekend. May it not involve moaning, hospitals, vomit, poo or any other assorted unpleasantries.

Here are some photos ... discomfort be damned, it will not stop me from taking heli-cute photos of my boys. Take that, intestines!!

Practicing the future faces they'll no doubt make right before they do something like dress the cat in my wedding dress and teach it to swim.

Wilder holds "the bebe."

Truck sheets are cool.

Hangin' in the sunroom.

Handsome Hunter.

Because this is what most of my photos of my sons really turn out like.

Photozzzzzzzzzzzz

These first five are from the neighborhood parade, before during and after.




Wilder this morning, still in his hospital gown. He was promised ice cream by assorted medical staff for 10 hours straight and never got any (once they realized his glucose was reading high they'd reneg ... bastards!). So, at 7 a.m. when we got home and our poor little boy quietly suggested "ice cream" ... well, how can you say no.

Hunter weathered the night better than any of us. Here he is in his brand-spankin'-new jumper, which he hasn't quite figured out yet. Tonight he was mostly just launching himself wildly around, freaking himself out.

I love the sort of diabolical big-brainness this picture hints out. The seemingly huge forehead, the crazy glint in his eyes. You can't tell in the pictures I post, but Hunter can his right eyebrow and does quite often. In this photo it's raised, and it makes me wonder what he was thinking about.
All right, I'm off to the Land of Nod. Nite all.

One last observation on the night from hell

It can be difficult to entertain a 2-year-old in an emergency room for hours on end. After exhausting all the games I could think of to entertain a little boy hooked up to fluids and many monitors -- the opposite game, this little piggie, I spy with my little eye, etcetera etcetera -- Wilder spied the tiny TV up on the wall.

I turned it on and changed channels, Wilder repeating "no ... no ... no ..." until he saw something that caught his eye.

So what did we watch for an hour while waiting for our ambulance escort to hospital No. 2?

Octopussy. The best part? It was dubbed in Spanish. When you're 2, watching Octopussy goes a little something like this.

"Choo choo! Choo choo mama! ... Car! Ooooooh, helicopter! Mama, they crashed!!! Look Mama! Clown. Clown. Clown. Clown. Mama, mama, mama ... CLOWN!!!!"

Party interruptus

So, about that blood in the carpet ...

Well, that's the short part of the story. Betty tore a nail and tracked it all over the house. Some of our party guests got online to figure out how to clean it up. Then they did.

That's that. But don't feel cheated out of a story because the question is: Why were our guests cleaning blood out of the carpet instead of Jerry and I? Well, Jerry and I were at the hospital with Wilder. In fact, last night we spent, between the two of us, 12 hours in two separate hospitals, where Wilder was subjected to all manner of tests, including and culminating in a CAT scan.

Before I go any further, Wilder is fine. Today, he's running around the house -- pantsless, mind you, which is his favorite way to explore a house -- as exuberant as ever.

So here's what happened. The party started at 2 p.m. It was going fantastically. Lots of people showed up. Tons of kids in the pool, having fun, many of their parents with them. Hunter was being mellow. Wilder was having a ball.

Until about 5:30 p.m. At that point, he started to get very cranky. After a bit, Jerry and I came to the decision that he was really tired and needed a little nap. We got him out of the pool and, at that point, he really started to freak out. Lots of screaming, lots of body contorting. We took him to bed and left the room for about 10 minutes. He wasn't calming down, so I went into his room. I talked to him about taking it easy, but he was inconsolable. I mean he was either in a LOT of pain or he was competing for the Super-Mega Tantrum 2008 title.

At some point, I decided I was going to stay in his room until he fell asleep. Something just told me not to leave. I swear, this was like a crystal clear intuition. I just felt strongly, really strongly, that I shouldn't leave him alone.

About five minutes later, things got really scary. Wilder had calmed down briefly, but worked himself up again. It was like he was trying to stay angry and conscious at the same time. I was trying to figure out what was up when his eyes rolled back in his head and he started to throw up. I pulled him out of bed onto his feet. He stood there, barely able to keep himself on his feet, convulsing and puking for another five minutes. He was having trouble breathing. He didn't even seem to be in his body.

At this point, I lost it. I started screaming for Jerry. He came running and Wilder briefly came back to himself, refusing ice cream and still crying uncontrollably.

A few weeks ago, someone sent us an article on dry drowning. Basically, kids get water in their lungs while swimming, yet remain alert for a period of time. After awhile, they start to act strange and then get really sleepy. Parents will put them down for a nap, where they will drown.

Freaky, right? Well, I'd forwarded the article to Jerry and, though we both knew that the statistical chances of this happening to Wilder were very low, neither of us could get it out of our minds. And we were especially freaked because he couldn't seem to stay awake, couldn't seem to keep his eyes open or his head up.

In a flash that now feels like a slow-motion blur, we decided an emergency room visit was in order. Jerry ran out the door without shoes on, still wet from the pool. I quickly enlisted friends to watch Hunter and feed him and, barely able to keep myself calm, drove like a madwoman to the hospital, about 10 minutes behind the boys. They were already in admitting when I got there. Wilder had thrown up twice more and was borderline catatonic when I arrived. Moaning, labored breathing.

They took him back to a room, hooked him up to some monitors and started an IV to take some blood. He came to when they did that, cried out once and faded back out. It was the lethargy that was really concerning the docs (and, obviously, us).

At some point I stepped outside to call our friends and check on Hunter. I was crying on the phone about how out of it he was and how scared I was. When I stepped back into his room, he was sitting up, looked at me and yelled out: "Mama!" An x-ray tech had stepped in to x-ray his lungs and he'd perked up, just like that. Just like someone had snapped their fingers and magically brought him to.

Strange.

So let me wrap this up because this is feeling like a novel ...

We stayed at Doctors Hospital a few more hours. Wilder had low potassium and high glucose and, though he was now acting almost totally normal, the doctors decided to transfer him to Children's Hospital to rule out diabetes or anything else more serious. So an ambulance ride and 12 hours later (I had to go home at about 2 a.m. to feed the baby and Jer stayed with Wilder for the remainder of his tests), he was released with a clean bill of health, the incident unexplained. I guess it was some strange mixture of sun, fun, stress, exhaustion and who knows what else.

Everyone here today is tired, but happy. We're together, we're healthy. There've been lots of cuddles and popsicle requests granted. On that note, I'm off ... my car is still at hospital No. 1 and needs to be picked up.

Love to all. I've got pictures from the weekend to post later.

Party gone bad

Let's just quickly say it's never a good sign when, the morning after you've had a party, you jump on your computer and the web page that's been left up is titled "How to Clean Blood From Carpet."

More to come later -- I'm operating on about 2 hours of sleep. Jerry is finally down after being up all night, and not at home. Hunter is napping. And Wilder, though he should be beyond sacked out on his pillow, is -- of course -- not even remotely sleepy.

Let me assure everyone that all is well -- but the party most decidedly did not go off without a hitch.

Summer shots

Brotherly love ...


For one of them, the love didn't last too long.


Wilder's third year to enjoy the local sprayground ...


He went two days in a row and cried both times we had to leave. He LOVES ... no, he lurrrrvvvvvessss it.


At the Dallas Arboretum's outdoor stage to see Asleep at the Wheel with some friends and their kids. The music was good, but the weather, company and atmosphere were even better. The kids had a ball.


Handsome boys No. 1 ...


No. 2 ...


And No. 3 ...


Wilder and Mama's sidewalk chalk masterpiece mural.


Sir Jerry gets attacked by two brave knaves, Wilder and his new buddy Luke.

Monday ...

It's been one of those Mondays so far. It started off innocently, and I even got a little play time outside with Wilder and his newest fascination, snails. Correction: putting snails on toy cars (I don't know what he thinks might happen, because I'm pretty sure a snail doesn't know a '57 Chevy replica from, say, a mushroom, but still, we persist in putting the critters on the cars and, I guess, waiting for the engine to start). But all too soon it was time for Jer to load the kids in the car for daycare. I went to grab Hunter, who was playing on his activity mat. And that's when things went south.

Some strange hiccup/sneeze thing happened and, within seconds, the kid had projectile emptied his entire stomach contents. Halfway through I snatched him up and he emptied half of it on me. Poor thing (him, not me).

So now he's had a bath (and I a change of clothes). I got him dried and lotioned and dressed and fed again. He started yawning so I laid him down for a nap. He crapped his pants. I undressed him, changed him again, resnapped him up. He crapped his pants again. Repeat. Back down to bed and now he's fast asleep and seems immune to my repeated entries to make sure all is still right in his world and his diaper.

Funny thing is, he never cried once. In fact, he mostly smiled. Much like Wilder was when he was little, and probably all little ones are to some extent, Hunter is a trooper. Not much rattles that kid.

And so, I take a page from my kids' manuals, and just write this morning off as the kind of thing that happens when you have the wee ones. Sure, you might get puked on, you might change four diapers in 45 minutes, and somewhere in between all that, you might give yourself a near-concussion on the kitchen cabinet door and have to lie on the floor clutching your head for a couple mintues, moaning (yes, I did). But when it's all said and done and that little Biggie Smalls who's fast asleep in his crib right now gives you one of his killer, heart-melting, gut-wrenchingly lovable smiles, well, hell ... who really gives a damn? I'd get puked on every day for those smiles.

Hunter turns 3 months; Wilder skinny-fies up a little

Hunter turned 3 months old this weekend. I remember reading somewhere once that babies really don't become fully gestationalized (word?) until they're 3 months old ... how it's almost like they need to spend another quarter of a year inside the womb, cooking, but instead emerge early from mama's oven. (Bear with me; I'm reading too many cooking-related books recently).

So anyway, it's not with any small amount of excitement that I look forward to the 3 month mark. There is something more "realized," for lack of a better word, about an infant that age. You can start to see a glimmer of his future facial features. He can grab at things. He's checking out his hands, feet, can hold his head up better. You can see that he's checking out the world and seeing the possibilities. Example: "There's that big brother of mine that keeps screaming 'happy baby!!!' in my face at high decibels. Look, he's holding a wiffle ball bat. Hmmm, if I learn to use my arms and legs better I can take that bat from him and crank him over the head with it."

You get my drift.

So it was with some alarm that, at 4:30 a.m. on the day of Hunter's 3-month mark, I woke up to his curdling screams -- and I do mean SCREAMS -- as he slept nestled right beside me. It was somewhat akin to the night I woke up to a cockroach crawling across my body. I mean, one minute sleeping, the next minute: "AGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Jerry, who'd fallen asleep on the couch watching some movie about swords and war (those who know Jerry best have mental pictures in their heads now -- in fact, I swear this is not made up: I woke up the next morning and discovered the evidence in the living room of him dragging his sword, shield and arm bracers out to watch the movie with him. My husband = HUGE adorable DORK), came running back to the room.

We eventually got Hunter calmed down, chalked it up to being too warm and a bad dream, and drifted off back to sleep, all of us (on a side note, every single one of us, including Wilder, slept until almost 9:45 the next morning -- Jerry and I noted that that hasn't happened since before Wilder was born). But Hunter's newfound love of mood swings didn't end there. It wasn't a horrible weekend, but the calm, smiling boy we've come to know and love discovered that life can make you pretty damn grumpy sometimes. It was like he inherited a bit of my personality, because I = HUGE not-so-adorable GRUMP sometimes, especially when compared with my sunny-dispositioned better half.

Hunter was restless, didn't eat as much, fussed a ton, was obviously exhausted but would hardly sleep longer than 20 minutes, etc. We fretted a bit over this, and this fretting eventually led me to the 21st century parenting expertise that is Google. Har har. Anyway, I finally figured out what was bothering him last night when it hit me that his mouth had been leaking like a sieve all day.

Yep, teething. At 3 months. A dash to the pharmacy, we poured some Motrin down his throat, and 20 minutes later the poor fella finally slumped into a deep sleep on my chest. I think the teething has to do with the fact that he sits in his bouncy chair each night while Jerry, Wilder and I dine on any number of delicious things. That and Wilder running around the house screaming "ice cream," "sweeties," "cake," "snack" and "juice" all the time. Only imagine each one of those in bolded capital letters followed by many exclamation points and you get the idea of Wilder's general attitude toward food. It'd make me wanna subconsciously push out a chomper or two too.

That's about all in Hunter news. In Wilder's world, he continues to love the pool. He probably gets in it at least twice a day on Saturdays and Sundays. He's learning to use a kickboard and is very comfortable in the water, even with me now. (For awhile, it was like he thought Jerry was a dolphin and I was some poor flailing cat thrown into the deep end, all evidence to the contrary.)

Whether it's because of all this swimming or because he's growing up or both, he's really thinned out over the last couple weeks. He was running around this morning in his shorts with no shirt on and I could see his little ribs. Incidentally, I was seeing those ribs in between flashes of orange material as he hurled the shirt he was intending to be wearing over and over at my head while giggling maniacally. Ahh, boys.

Anyway, it's morning and my coffee cup is empty and work beckons. Bahhhh, work.

xo, k.

Cute little brain-eaters they are

They appear out of nowhere -- three or four of them. Walking slowly and stiff-legged toward me, slack-jawed, eyes emotionless and round, almost buggy. The clothes they wear are tatty, often dirty with lord knows what. Sometimes their pale arms are extended, fingers grabbing thin air, as if to say: "You ... I want to eat your face, make my way to your gooey brains." They drool at the thought. I plot my exit -- grab the boys and make a run for the door, to the car, load everyone in, lock the doors and slam the car into drive. We all breathe a sigh of relief and start talking about afternoon snacks of sweeties, fishies, crackers. Maybe a little juice. Just some sugar to calm our jaggedy nerves.

After all, we've just escaped the soggy, clammy, death-grip grasp of the 10-month-plus zombie set.

Summertime summertime

I started back to work last week and the transition has gone surprisingly well. I almost cried as I left daycare the first day, and again when I pulled into the parking lot at work, but I managed to blink back the tears both times.

I wanted to do this post about how much my 12 weeks with Hunter meant to me, but I'm finding that being a mama to more than one boy and working nearly full time is a real time sucker. Well, that and we've been in the pool a lot. Yes, let's see ... blog? Swim? Blog? Float in the sun? Screw the blog!

I kid, I kid ... I'll try to do better, but in the meantime, here are some recent photos. And, for the record, my 12 weeks of maternity leave was for the most part heavenly. The second time around I stressed less and enjoyed it MUCH more.