A Remedy for Those Sleepless Nights

Tonight, as I was sifting through the never-ending pile of paper that always finds its way to my desk, Anna came in and said she couldn't sleep. As this is a fairly common problem, I always tell her something different to do each night. Tonight's solution? "Just close your eyes and think about something really boring," I counseled her, "That's what I do sometimes when I can't sleep."

"I guess," she replied. "Hey, did you ever remember a boring time when your mom took you to the Salvation Army to help sort through Christmas presents, and then you had to sit for two hours while your mom did paperwork because there was a mean lady at the sorting table who wouldn't let your family help because there were young kids? And the paperwork lady really liked the help so you had to stay forever?"

Did I mention I took the kids to volunteer at the Salvation Army right before Christmas?

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas!



Since we are so far away from our family, we decided to record part of our Christmas program this year so we could share it with everyone. Elizabeth learned how to sign "Silent Night" and Anna memorized the poem "Christmas Everywhere." They both panicked when the camera came out, so they aren't quite as impressive as they were during practice. Personally, I'm just glad that Elizabeth eventually remembered that she was supposed to be signing as well as singing.



Jane is a little nervous about Christmas - when her sisters get excited, they can become aggressive. But as always, she has a smile on her face and loves attention from her sisters (even if she's a little wary). I'll be honest; if I was only two feet tall and Elizabeth came running at me with that wild look in her eyes, I'd wet my pants. Come to think of it, she probably does.

Decorating Tips from the Girls

Leaning on a pallet at Lowe's, our tree was the pinnacle of greenery. When meticulously decorated with 1200 lights (yes - 12 strands), it glowed with a fiery Christmas beauty. I added my collection of silver bulbs, silver bells, and stars. I donated hours to the project and finished late at night, covered with scrapes, sap stains, and a huge smile. Martha Stewart would have sighed with pleasure at the beauty of my Christmas tree.

But it is not just my tree. So, in the spirit of Christmas, I allowed our girls to hang their ornaments. And in a style truly their own, my girls taught me a thing or two about decorating.

1. If one ornament looks nice, five more on the same branch looks five times as nice. I'm serious - Elizabeth actually broke a branch because she put so many ornaments on it.

2. Ornaments should not be hung at a height above four feet.

3. When you run out of ornaments, any Christmas decorations can be placed on the tree. This includes my Bing Crosby White Christmas figurine (don't ask - if you had one you would understand), nativity figures, ornament hooks, etc.

4. If, during the process of hanging up ornaments, you see your sister's exposed stomach, you should slap it.

5. If, when she slaps your stomach, you notice her exposed shoulders, you should slap them.

6. If your sister slaps your exposed shoulders, you should push her out of the way when Dad tries to take your picture.

7. If your sister pushes you, you should jump on top of her.

8. If your Dad tells you to leave each other alone, for crying out loud, you should attack him.

9. (Mom sits on the couch nursing Jane and laughing.) If, when you try to attack your mom, she gives you a look of death, you should leave her alone and attack your Dad instead.

10. You should admire your tree at least 20 times a day.

In a House Full of Women

It's hard to be a superhero. The constant pressure to save lives, to be manly and tough. The Flash has given up. He has lived in the Polly Pocket tub for too long. At first it was just the occasional high heel. But Elizabeth couldn't stand it any longer. She had to help him with his outfit. I guess red was just not his color.

Old Man

When we were kids, we used to love to play "Old Maid" with my youngest sister Annie. Whoever had the old maid would stick that card up two inches higher than the rest of their cards, and she would eagerly grab it. We would giggle at our cleverness, thinking that it was a good thing that this kind of deceitfulness was unknown to the rest of the world. When it dawned on Annie she was being duped by her not-so-good-Samaritan-siblings, we had to change our methods. It was simple, really. We took the old maid card and stuck it two inches lower in the deck, so she thought we were trying to hide it.

Worked like a charm. For about one game. I wonder if Annie has any lingering trust issues.

Anna just bought a game at the church bookstore in D.C. It is called "Old Man." It is filled with pairs of Bible characters, with only one Methuselah, the old man. I have, of course, ingeniously used the same "Old Maid" strategies on my children. They worked like a charm. Unfortunately Anna is already catching on, and poor Elizabeth is saddled with the old man until I have pity on her and "accidentally" draw him. Anna is so cutthroat in this game that she even tried to have Jane draw the old man (Jane just smiled a gummy smile and tried to eat the card). I can't help but worry that I'm raising card sharks or, even worse, politicians.

Wouldn't MacGyver be proud . . .

We're thinking possible Christmas pictures.


The girls kept running around saying, "We're Hannah Montana. We're Miley Cyrus." Won't they be surprised someday when they learn they are way more Billy Ray Cyrus than Miley Cyrus. I could write for pages about this, but let's just say that I love after-Halloween clearance sales.

Hey Big Spender

I have had my humiliating experience for the week, perhaps month. I took Sean to a comedy show tonight (that is not the embarrassing part). The guy is hilarious, super clean, and does most of his shows in Baptist churches (We skipped the post-concert prayer meeting . . . and I'm not kidding). On the way back, we stopped and got cash out for the babysitter. We pay $8 an hour and she was there for 3.5 hours. I had a $20 bill and $8 in ones and a five. I dropped off our very sweet and very shy babysitter and handed her the money.

When I got home, Sean asked how much I had paid her. I opened my purse as I was telling him and noticed THE $20 WAS STILL IN THERE!!! Apparently my purse has a hard time of letting go of large bills because the money was stuck to one side.

Oh, crap. She thinks we paid her $8 for the night, not for an hour. That comes out to $2.21 an hour. I'm sure she'll want to babysit for us all the time.

I drove all the way back to her house and knocked on the door at 11:00 at night. Her mom answered the door and gave me an evil look. I am pretty sure the fire coming from her eyes singed my eyebrows. I blurted out my story. She was understanding, but I am afraid that our sweet babysitter had been crying in her room.
got home. Next time we have a babysitter, I am counting out the money in front of her.

There is only one thing that can make me smile after this. Check out this video - I got to see it live tonight. :)

Apple Picking and Real Food

We've been waiting for this day for weeks - ever since the van went kaput. We finally went apple picking. And it was worth the wait - now we have two bags filled with all of the little under ripe apples the girls could reach :)

The terrifying thing about apple picking?

Man-In-Charge-of-Apple-Orchard: Don't pick up any of the apples on the ground.

Me: Okay. Are those the ones you use to make cider?

Man-In-Charge-of-Apple-Orchard: No those are the ones that could be infected with e-coli. The deer come into the orchard at night and their droppings . . . (do I really need to finish this?)

Me (in a rather weak voice): Oh, I see.

Me (thinking): I just paid $.40 a pound for poop-apples?

Me (out loud): Girls, did you pick up ANY apples off the ground?

Girls (sweetly): Of course not, Mommy.

Do I trust them? They swear they didn't touch the apples on the ground. But my bowels tremble at the thought of what might happen. I think it might be worth the full $1.00 a pound to go to the friendly neighborhood market.

But the experience was fabulous.

Anna spent most of the time falling on the ground into apple mush. She couldn't/wouldn't slow down and watch out for the (round and slippery) apples. It was like running across a floor covered in marbles. The seat of her pants were covered in applesauce. The smell on those things was enough to curl my hair.

Elizabeth kept climbing into the trees, a major no-no that the man-in-charge-of-the-orchard forbade in a rather ominous voice (I want one of those). But those apples just past your fingertips always look so much better than the ones you can reach. (I'm one to talk - I carried around a bucket that I could stand on so I could grab the ones out of reach, which, by the way, were no better than the others.)

Jane patiently chilled in her baby carrier, enjoying being outside and watching her two crazy sisters. She has had her fill of attention this past week. We started her on REAL FOOD!! She is a week or two too young, but she has learned to use her hands well enough to try to grab stuff off of my plate. As I'm not into sharing, we decided to give her some rice cereal.

Jane's new mantra - "If you feed me, I love you." (Actually, it's my motto, but she has adopted it.) Everyone gets a smile when they feed her cereal. I'm sure she wouldn't be smiling if she knew that what we eat tastes about 1000 times better. But now that my kids steal every treat I even consider eating, I wish they were still on rice cereal.

Husband torture

Have you ever secretly wanted to punish your husband for misdeeds he has committed? Not that I ever have, but if I wanted to, I have inadvertently stumbled across a new method for doing just that.

The time? Sunday afternoon
The place? Ward choir

I have been trying to get our family more involved in church and service activities, so yesterday afternoon I proclaimed that we were all going to ward choir. Sean griped and moaned; he didn't want to go, it was in the middle of his Sunday afternoon, he didn't even like choir. But in the end, he put on his church clothes and drove us all over to choir practice.

We walked in the door to find a room full of women. The sole man in the room was the pianist. Sean looked at me with a look that shriveled several locks of my hair. He sat down on the one chair that was left - a stool about a foot tall (I took a picture with my phone, but have been banned from showing it).

The worst/best part? The sweet-yet-somewhat-oblivious choir director kept working on the "bass" part. "Okay basses," she'd say, "That didn't sound quite right. Let's hear that again. I need to hear it louder this time."

The words coming out of his mouth were "How Great Thou Art," but every time he looked at me his eyes said something much different.

So, Sean got to sing a solo for about half of our hour-long choir practice. All in the name of becoming more involved.

I don't think we are going to ward choir again.

The Door-to-Door Meat Salesman

Would you buy chicken from a strange man at your door? Is door-to-door meat selling even legal?

He randomly stopped today and asked me if I wanted to buy some meat. The woman next door had ordered it and wasn't home, and we would sell it to me "real cheap."

hmmm. Do I want meat that is "real cheap?" Where I come from, "real cheap" meat is tuna fish. Yet somehow I had the image of him opening up a trench coat to reveal cold cuts hanging from the loops sewn inside.

He was clearly upset that I wasn't interested in his dubious goods. I was clearly upset that my children had opened the door for the meatmonger. We're definitely going to have to have a discussion about door screening tactics. You always know the houses where this discussion has taken place. You ring the doorbell and three small children peer at you through the blinds while they yell, "Mom!!" You wave. They run away. Very stealthy, small ones. I hardly even noticed you.

Have Mercy!!

It all started on a beautiful sunny Sunday. We were doing dinner dishes together and laughing with the kids. Then Sean noticed that there was a little water under the sink. We put a bucket there and decided to check again on Monday.

Monday. The little water has become a lot more water. So much, in fact, that there is a puddle of water in the basement by Monday night. hmm. Not good. We call our landlord who arranges for a plumber.

Tuesday. The plumber, who is actually a not-so-handy-man, comes. He takes 3 hours to replace the faucet, which had a leak in the hose. Not only does he spend three hours in my domicile, he makes me help him for one of those hours. "Hold this. Don't let it move. This is a two man job," I hear repeatedly.

At the conclusion, he gives me a five minute tutorial on using my new faucet. "Turn it this way for hot water. Turn it this way for cold water. Look - this is a soap dispenser. Aren't you lucky?" Aren't I? I ask him about the wet boards under the sink. They'll be okay, of course. Just turn a heater on them.

Wednesday. 85 degrees and a heater is on in my kitchen. No problem. I'm okay. I go with the flow.

9:00 that night. Sean notices there is a little more water under the sink. He turns off the hot and cold water. I am left without a sink. That's nice. I can deal.

Thursday. Our landlord suggests we call the not-so-handy-man ourselves to set up a time for him to show. He does not answer our calls. That's okay. I'm sure he's busy. He'll call soon. 1:00 on Thursday. I walk into the kitchen to hear a hissing water spraying sound. I pull out the fridge, and am sprayed in the face by a NEW leak - the hose that runs to the fridge has a sprung a leak. But I'm still okay.

I call Sean, who does not respond because he is in a meeting. (I have a secret belief that he was just done with all of this and conveniently forgot to check his messages, of which I left five). I look up the instructions online and learn how to shut off the water to the fridge. Now I'm feeling good. I am a problem solver. I am woman; hear me roar.

And then it came in the form of my beautiful daughter. "Mom," she reports, "There is a lot of water in the basement." I sigh, thinking that she always exaggerates. I head down the stairs to go handle what I am sure is a small spill. I arrive in the basement to find a ten foot puddle with all of the insect baits floating in it. (Did I mention that I hate bugs and there are a lot of them here? I keep the traps out for peace of mind.)

Now I am not a problem solver. I am a lunatic. A lunatic who has to move out three full shelving units worth of stuff so I can sop up the leak. We are out of towels.

Thursday evening I get a call from the not-so-handy-man. He was sure that I was wrong. "I just fixed it. It was working when I left." The not-so-handy-man has the gall to rudely insinuate that perhaps I am lying or that we caused the problem. He guesses he will be there at 10:00 the net morning. I prepare for war.

Friday. I get a call from my friend Jessica seeing if we would like to go and pick apples. Here it is - a perfect way to rise above this week. We prepare to leave after the not-so-handy-man is done. The not-so-handy-man arrives, and Anna, the bearer of bad news, runs over to me and whispers, "Mom. The plumber has a gun." What? I'm sure not. She probably mistook one of his plumber tools for a gun.

No. She hasn't. Where plumber crack should be when he bends over, there is a pistol. A six-shooter. I have the outlaw Jesse James fixing my sink! As if this man has anything to fear from our household of femininity. (And what if he accidentally shoots off a cheek?) All my resolve to be feisty mysteriously melts away. When he leaves, I thank him profusely.

I am determined that week will turn around! With a fixed faucet and hose to the fridge repaired, we are free. We load up the car for apple picking with a smile on our faces. But no! It was not to be. Half a mile down the freeway, smoke starts rising from the steering column. The gauges start going wild. We pull off the freeway and park in the parking lot of my favorite store, waiting for Sean to come save us from what I am quite sure is not my life. Sean comes and the van won't start. We wait another hour for a tow truck, and I take Sean back to work in his car, sure that the horror must be over.

But no! I get a call from the repair shop. A FAMILY OF MICE HAS TAKEN UP RESIDENCE IN THE ENGINE OF MY VAN AND HAS EATEN ALL OF THE WIRES THAT CONTROL PRETTY MUCH EVERY ELECTRICAL FUNCTION IN THE VEHICLE.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

MICE?!@!#!?!$@! - A FAMILY OF THEM !@#!#!@#@!@#!@? Find a happy place, find a happy place. But I'm good. We call the tow truck to take our van to the only people in town who can deal with this kind of damage - the dealership. They will have time to look at our van in a week. But I'm calm. I can deal with this. phew. My throat does hurt a little, though. I credit the stress. I shouldn't have.

Saturday. I woke up with a terrible sore throat. I open my mouth to reveal tonsils covered in white spots and swollen to the hangy thing in the back of my throat. It hurts to swallow; it hurts to breathe. After a quick glance, my doctor said, "Woah. Have you seen this in the mirror?"

It is a good thing that I left Sarcastic Katy in the waiting room, because she would have had a whole lot to say in answer to that comment. Patient Katy smiled and said, "Yes, and it hurts." My rapid strep test came back negative but it could still be strep, for which I am on antibiotics. Or I could have mono. Could I please? Oh boy.

And the corker? Saturday night I was trying to make some meals (armed with a facemask and a bottle of Purell) for the next week just in case it was as bad as this one. As I poured hot broccoli puree into a bowl, a bit splattered. On my arm. Ouch. But am I the kind of woman who lets a third degree burn hold her down? Who am I kidding? I just want my woobie and a good book.

Blackouts and Blowouts

Life isn't easy when you are the only man in a house bursting at the seams with girls, girly stuff, squeals, dolls, and pink. Somehow Sean does it. Perhaps its the fact that Elizabeth loves superheroes. Maybe its Anna's pictures of John Deere tractors. Maybe its that Jane loves her daddy and smiles and coos at him. Perhaps its just those moments like the one below that make him smile.

Katy: I almost blacked out when I was blowing up your birthday balloons today.

Sean: I'm glad you weren't holding a hot iron. (Did I mention I had an iron incident last week?)

Katy: very funny. Haven't you ever started to black out when you were blowing up balloons?

Sean: No. Never.

Elizabeth: Daddy, I know that you have blowouts when you blow up balloons.

**silence**

**peals of laughter**

Poor Sean. What a good sport. Poor me. Have you ever blown up ten balloons while you were nursing?

Jane in Action

I know that I have been terrible about blogging, so here are a couple of short videos of Jane. The dancing one is hilarious - thanks Dan and Katie.



Dan and Katie dancing with Jane. They were so cute with her.



Jane has decided that Anna is her friend. Sean and I can only get coos from her for a few seconds, but Jane and Anna can chat for several minutes.

Who is this crazy woman the other small ones call Mom?

So, we have a new baby, and life has gone from busy to wild. I forgot how hard it is to get anything done with an infant, and that includes blogging (This paragraph has taken me 30 minutes to write, for example). I am sure there will be more mistakes than correct parts, since I am holding her while I write.

Jane Katherine was born on June 16th. She weighed 7 lbs 14 oz, and was 20 inches long. Here are a few shots before the delivery. Sean had to take one more picture before I was a normal size again. This is one of only two pictures he got of me - the other was of me in the pool two weeks before I had Jane. Rest assured - that picture has been destroyed.

Since this was a new hospital (I had to ask for directions to the maternity wing), I was a little nervous about the way they did things. Take, for example, the call button.


Does that red button look like an evil viking helmet, or is it just me? Whom does that frightening button summon? I half expected my nurses to run in looking like they were ready to pillage and set fire to the room.

I was also a little suspicious about the table they wheeled in with the green cloth over the top. Why would they need to cover a simple table? The answer? Because it was filled with the kinds of torture devices that only vikings really know how to use (They would also come in handy if I needed to do a craft project and was short a pair of scissors, or ten).


They induced me at 2:00 (bless their hearts - I would still be pregnant), and I had Jane at 4:00. Sean was amazing. I didn't get an epidural, and it turns out that intense pain makes me sweaty. . . really, really sweaty. Sean fanned me with a booklet about hospital procedure for an hour straight. (His biceps are now rock solid).


We could tell almost immediately that Jane had a more moderate temperament than our other two, who tend to be a little rambunctious/high strung (cough of understatement). Its a good thing too, because they love to hold her, kiss her, smother her, love her, make her kiss them, smother her, snuggle with her, smother her.


So, here are a few more pictures of us the past two months. We spent four days in D.C. with my parents, and I will tell you that taking three kids and a stroller on the metro during the morning commute is not an experience that many people live to tell about.



At the entrance to the National Zoo. It is the most beautiful zoo I've ever been to, and I really got to appreciate certain sections in detail since I had to stop twice to nurse as we walked through (the entrance to the ape house is really quite lovely). I was so grateful to have Grandma Kirkpatrick, Uncle Matt, and Aunt Annie to help. We also visited the Supreme Court, the Library of Congress, the Capitol, the National Archives, the Museum of Natural History, the Air and Space Museum, and the National Gallery of Art. Anna was really excited to get to see her favorite painting, the only Da Vinci in the U.S. She wanted to look through the rest of the museum before she saw it, so she could "have it fresh in her mind."




We also did a lot of walking around the National Mall. The highlight, of course, was the ice cream vendor, who I suspect followed us around, and sold gigantic "spongebob squarepants ice cream cones!!! - and look, Mom, the eyes are bubblegum!!!! And they have tweety bird!!!!!! Can I get a rainbow one too?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"



Jane, of course, spent most of her time trying to remember the sweet peace of the womb. Find a happy place, find a happy place.




Jane's blessing was right after our return. We had a house full of family, which was wonderful. Grandpa and Grandma Kirkpatrick came back from D.C. with Matt and Annie, Grandpa and Grandma Naef were in Tennessee and they flew in to be with us. Uncle John and Aunt Colleen drove in from West Virginia.




Our second trip with infant Jane was to Oregon for a family reunion with Sean's family. We had a blast, and we especially enjoyed having Sean with us for a week. His work schedule is demanding, and we don't get to see him as much as we used to. He and I really enjoyed ourselves, and of course the kids did with all their cousins, Disney channel 24/7, and a seemingly endless supply of snacks (They have experienced kid heaven, and its been hard going back).They loved going down the river with Dad and Uncle Trevor while Jane and I went shopping.




Our THIRD trip of the summer (and we're taking a fourth this upcoming weekend) was to Philadelphia to see Uncle Dan, Aunt Katie, Uncle Stephen, Aunt Kim, and Independence Hall. We had to leave Sean at home, and I made the six hour drive there by myself, which ended up not being too terrible (hah!).

If anyone is interested in going to Philadelphia with small children, I have knowledge vital to your visit - I can mentally map every single bathroom within a square mile of the Liberty Bell. Three girls, three bladders . . . I fear this will be a common theme in our future trips. (sigh of sorrow for lost hours that could be spent staring googly-eyed at historical monuments) Aunt Katie got to visit Independence Hall with us, and thank goodness she did. Its not easy leaving a tour while dragging three children to the nearest bathroom (which is not so near).

Jane has adapted well and the girls still love her to death two months later. Bless that kid's pea-picking heart; She loves them back.

P.S. Please don't report me to social services for this picture. She doesn't really share a bed with her sisters and the gigantic Mickey Mouse. We are careful parents - we would never let Mickey roll over her in the middle of the night. It is partially posed - we stuck Jane in. The other three snuck into my bed sometime before.

Bursting at the Seams

I have a doctor's appointment this morning, and so during breakfast, we took bets on how far dialated I was. As disgusting as this sounds, neither of the kids appreciates what this means, and the reward for guessing correctly was ice cream. Nobody in my house can turn down that incentive.

I gave them the perameters (between 1 and 5), and Anna guessed 20 centimeters. I started to retort, "Do you know what I would be walking like if I was diala . . . ," but was stopped by the sad realization that perhaps I do walk like that.

My feeling of overbloated-pregnant-lady-ness did not end there. (You know me. This story had to get worse.) Every morning, Sean gets into his car to drive to work and I pile the girls into the van to take Anna to school. This is a familiar routine, usually accompanied by the familiar sounds of "We're late. Hurry! Buckle up!" Today, as I leapt into the van, I heard the unfamiliar sound "rrrrriiiiiipppppp," as the seam of my pants literally disintegrated into oblivion. Sean, in a (shocking and out-of-character) display of complete un-sympathy, said, "I've really got to go. Don't worry about it. You don't get out of the car to drop her off."

True, but the 2 foot split down the crotch of my pants was visible from the moon. Can you imagine if I was pulled over?

Officer - "Please step out of the car, Ma'am."

Me - "You really don't want me to."

Officer - "I said, 'Please step out of the car, Ma'am.'"

Me - "And I said, 'You really don't want me to.'"

Officer - "Ma'am, we're going to have to bring you down to the station."

Me - "Do you have a change of pants there?"

But I would like to pause and express gratitude to the sticktoitiveness of that seam. You made it seam, until almost the very end of two pregnancies. Its not your fault that I have worn you beyond what most pant seams have to endure. Thank you, pants seam, for not giving out at the doctor's office. Thank you, pants seam, for not ripping when I needed to look put together. Thank you, seam, for not disintegrating when I bent over at the park. Thank you, children, for not laughing until you fell out of your car seats.

If bad things usually happen in threes, I'm terrified to see what else this day holds.

Just Check Under the Tail

We now have an unofficial pet. Not the kind you have to feed, clean, play with, and dress (heaven forbid), but an animal we are fond of nonetheless. It has no name. It lives under the boulder by our townhouse. It digs holes in our yard and eats all of the ripe strawberries from our strawberry plants. (I guess that means we're feeding it. Dang it.) It is a chipmunk. Sean has voted to name it Alvin, Simon, or Theodore. Anna was concerned that we give it a gender-appropriate name. Since nobody else has seen the little guy in action early in the morning, Anna referred to me for help.

Anna: Mom, is it a boy chipmunk or a girl chipmunk?

Me (never considering that this would be important): I don't know.

Anna: Didn't you look?

Me: NO.

Anna: You know you just have to look at its bottom to tell if its a boy or a girl.

Me (thinking): Thank you Kindergarten sex-ed classes. Now I have to identify the gender of small rodents.

Me (out loud): I don't want to look at the bottom of the chipmunk.

Anna: All you have to do is pick it up by the tail and look.

Me (thinking): For crying out loud. Who has the sense of mind to check for gender if they could catch and hold up a chipmunk by its tail?

Me (out loud): I don't believe I am well-versed enough in Chipmunk privates to know even if I could (or wanted to) catch a wild rodent.

Anna: Oh. Well, at least we'd know.

So, we've named the chipmunk Pat.

LaVar Burton and Me (the old guys)

This morning, Anna made the mistake of saying the word "rainbow," which is always followed by Sean's and my chorus of, "I can fly anywhere . . . ." (Who are the children in this house, anyway?)

I explained to Anna that when I was a little girl, Reading Rainbow was my favorite show. She interrupted my out-loud reverie by asking the wrong question. "Mom, is the guy on Reading Rainbow really that old?"

*gasp - stunned silence*

My answer - "Anna, I'm not that old, and neither is he." I pretty sure can't sit there and allow her to slander the likes of LaVar Burton, on whom I have had a crush since the age of four.

But I think I am going to rock her little everyone-on-tv-is-as-young-as-they-look fantasy this afternoon. Guess what, kid? Maria from Sesame Street is that old, too (60). So are Luis and Gordon. Hee, hee. And I'm just getting started. Let's see if she can wrap her five-year-old brain around that one.

Katy vs. the Cricket

Last week when we drove Anna to school, I was struck with the beauty of the trees in full bloom, grown so large that the tops touch other trees across the street, forming a canopy of color akin to Anne of Green Gables' "White Way of Delight." I felt something like a romantic poet as I appreciated my surroundings. This area of Virginia is covered with trees, and in full bloom they are quite lovely.

But here is the problem with those lovely trees. In a word - critters. Now I understand why they use that term in the south. It is an all-encompassing word that describes all of the nasty little insects, spiders, unnameables, and rodents that you don't want in your house. Those nasty little things live in and love trees, and I'm afraid some of them view my house as an extension.

And now a new enemy has encroached on my turf. These nemeses were unnamed at first; I simply referred to them as mutant-spider-cricket-roach-frogs. Needing a faster reference to them, I spent hours on the internet staring at pictures of bulgy-eyed southern insects before being able to finally classify them. Cave crickets. ewwwww! They like dark, warm places, and my basement has become a hangout for the local teen crickets. I have only seen four and killed three, but I just know that there is a whole herd of them laughing at me, mocking my attempts.

This morning I went downstairs by myself to do laundry, something that I have made Sean accompany me to do since seeing the first new visitor. And there he was, bulgy eyed, perfectly still, and slightly out of the reach of my shoe (apparently there was a warning in the cricket gazette informing the potential hanger-outers of the limits of my reach). I grabbed the readily available weapons - lysol disinfectant spray, one shoe, the broom, and whatever courage I could muster.

I need not elaborate on the process. I'm sure you can all visualize the screaming, chasing, broom slashing, shoe stomping, bug-slaughter (I wish. I didn't catch him. Those things can jump). The aftermath - a one-shoed, wild haired, crazy-eyed woman standing alone (as if) in her basement, knowing that this one will definitely make the cricket gazette. The escapee is probably bragging to a swarm of interested girls by now - "You should have seen her. Huge. Armed. Aggressive. And I showed no fear. I have lived to tell the tale."

We will meet again, you nasty bug, and next time I will prevail.

The Nice Mom

Its amazing to me how quickly kids learn how to exploit their parents weaknesses in order to get anything they want. Today Elizabeth (who was very upset about me reorganizing her room) looked at me with malice and said, "Mom, you are not very n. . . Um, I mean, you are very nice. Can I have a popsicle?"

And here is the sad part. It is only 9:15 in the morning, and I said, "Yes." I know I'm being used. I know that we have eaten three boxes of popsicles since Saturday afternoon. I know that our garbage can smells like popsicles (a bizarre, and yet nice, phenomenon). I also know that it is 90 degrees today with 100% humidity. And lets be honest, if a steady stream of frozen sugar and artificial flavors can keep this swollen and cranky pregnant woman happy, isn't the world better off? Is it ever too early in the morning to do my part for world peace? And if Elizabeth learns this early that she can catch more flies with honey than vinegar, isn't she learning a good lesson? Speaking of sweet things, I think I need another frozen delicacy.

Happy Birthday, Annie

Annie - Happy Birthday! We love you so much. Here is a little video the girls made for you.

Sean and Anna's First Loose Tooth

Anna woke up last Saturday morning at 3:00 screaming, "I have a little ball in my mouth! I have a little ball in my mouth!" Sean got up with her (bless his heart) and discovered that she had a loose tooth. Anna was so excited she couldn't sleep. The rest of us couldn't either since she laid there chattering about every book she's ever read about losing a tooth - it turns out she's read a LOT of them.

We just knew that her tooth would come out the next day. (But you know us, does anything ever happen that easily in my life? Ooo, I'm ruining the suspense.)

As excited as Anna was, Sean was easily twice as excited. He was positively giddy (in the manliest way possible). This may be Anna's first loose tooth, but it is also Sean's first loose tooth as a dad, and that comes with certain fatherly responsibilities. They sat down to pull it out.

Sean (in his happy I'm-a-dad-and-I'm-doing-dad-stuff voice): Sit still. I'm going to pull it out.

Anna (in her happy I'm-going-to-be-filthy-rich-after-the-tooth-fairy-comes voice): Okay, Dad.

***Tug

Anna (now not so happy): AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! That hurts!

Sean (in a still positive but firm voice): Hold still.

Anna: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! That really hurts!

Sean (in a not not-so-calm voice): Hold still.

Anna (running from the room): AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

So, six days later, Anna's tooth has not loosened a bit. It is still in there. Sean has pulled out peroxide, tweezers, floss, needle-nose pliers (No, I'm not kidding). Now that I think about it, he's pretty much pulled out everything except her tooth. One side is completely loose, the other is not. Sean swears that if she'll just hold still while he really pulls and twists, it will come right out. Anna, who has the pain tolerance of an amoeba (I'm assuming that's like no tolerance at all), has steered clear of her dad for days. When he gets out his tool bag, she goes running with a terrified look on her face. And I can't say I blame her. Sean is in charge of the boy scouts for our ward now, and he's got some corresponding inner anxst/ferocity that he is trying to come to terms with. Who wants that coming near their mouth with pliers? (I love you, sweetheart)

Anna told me yesterday that she always thought that losing a tooth would be fun. Now she's knows that it is the most horrible thing in life. (Thought you'd all like a taste of Anna drama. Its a daily thing)

Ah, the trauma of young life. I haven't informed her that giving birth to her involved just a little more pain than her loose tooth.

I am tempted to sign her up for an ice hockey or boxing class. That thing would be out in no time. I should make corn on the cob for dinner. I could also "accidentally" elbow her in the mouth. Honestly, I think all of the above would be more humane than letting the tooth trauma continue.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

Today is my Dad's 51st birthday, so I thought I'd post a little message from Sean and I and the kids.

Dad- I love you! Have a wonderful birthday. We wanted to get you something special from here, but we figured that possum wouldn't travel too well. So there is a gift certificate waiting for you at Juliano's so you can enjoy lunch with Mom. I hope you have a great day, seminary convention aside. :)

Here is a little message from the girls.

Love,
Katy, Sean, Anna, and Elizabeth.

The Gap Dilemma

Dear Sean - if you are reading this blog, please stop. I think the kids are using your hair clippers to trim the carpet. You better get up and stop them.

Dear Everyone Else -
I think I might have an addiction. I received the following email and sent it on to many of you (because sharing the addiction is half the fun):


As many of you know, shopping at big people Gap holds little to no interest to me, especially now when I am the size of the Goodyear blimp, and the clothes are created for a size-2 supermodel (the fat ones). BUT, as many of you also know, I LOVE GapKids and BabyGap. Shopping for my kids is the greatest. They look fabulous in everthing. They appreciate everything they get. You can buy cute shirts for $6.99. You can buy cute shirts for 30% off of $6.99 with this coupon. (I think I'm salivating a bit) When I moved here, I actually shed a tear when I walked into the mall and GapKids had closed. I still shudder to think of it. Besides, shopping this weekend is actually helpful for charity - 5% of the money I spend goes to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.

So, is the addiction so deep that I am willing to drive to the nearest GapKids? It is only 55 miles away. If I buy one pair of jeans, I have saved enough money to pay for the gas for the trip. Sean, being the practical type and the voice of reason, scoffs at my addiction. "We can get the kids clothes here," he treacherously suggests, "besides, it is a long drive and its supposed to snow." But I feel kind of like Mr. Stork in Dumbo -

Through the snow and sleet and hail...
through the blizzard, through the gale...
through the wind and through the rain...
over mountain, over plain...
through the blinding lightning flash...
and the mighty thunder crash...
ever faithful, ever true...
nothing stops her.
She'll get through.

Is it worth the drive? (Have I mentioned that Anna's torso is so long that she can't wear shirts from most other stores?) Am I afraid of a little inclement weather? Should I take a wrong turn and report that I didn't realize where I was headed until I saw the neon "GapKids" lights?

Help!

Actoo-wee . . .

We have learned an important fact about Elizabeth - she is brutally honest. And she notices everything. We went to drop Anna off at school this morning and were greeted by her fantastic principal, who knows every child at the school and his/her parents.

Me: Goodbye, Anna. Have a great day at school.

Principal: Anna always has a great day. She is so happy.

Elizabeth: Actoo-wee, Anna cries about school. She is also whiny.

Anna (with a dirty look at Elizabeth): Bye, Mom.

Principal (with a straight face, presumably because she didn't understand Elizabeth): Bye!

Me (keen to be gone): Thank you! Bye!

So, I held it in until I got around the corner, and then I laughed hysterically. But you know what, it wasn't very funny when Anna was the same age and told all of the History graduate students that her dad was getting her mom tiny underwear for Christmas. (She saw some Tinkerbell underwear through a Target bag. They were a surprise for her, so Sean said he was getting them for me for Christmas. Joke's on me.) So I guess I have to appreciate how Anna felt. I think the only solution is to limit the amount of exposure that three-year-olds have to a public audience. Its best for them, for me, and (let's face it) for the public.

Battle of the Titans

On Saturday, Sean and Elizabeth had a epic battle, one that will go down in the Naef family history book. It was brutal - broom verses ceiling fan duster. With every strike, the dust really flew. Elizabeth was sure that she would come out triumphant, but seeing as she was severely handicapped in the match, she had to play smart. (Elizabeth is 3 feet tall and had a 3 foot duster. Sean is almost 6 feet tall and had the 5 foot broom). The battle of words and cleaning implements went something like this -

Elizabeth: We are going to name our baby Wonder Woman.

*crack*

Sean: Mom is not going to deliver a baby that comes out with a tool belt.

Elizabeth: WONDER WOMAN DOES NOT HAVE A TOOL BELT!

*crack*

Sean: Yes she does. Where does she hold her things?

*crack*

Elizabeth: She only has a magic lasso!

Sean: Right. Held on her tool belt.

Elizabeth: NO!

*crack*

Sean: Luke, I am your father.

Elizabeth: MY NAME IS NOT LUKE!

*crack*

With the final crack, Elizabeth hit Sean in the thumb (told you she'd have to play smart). Dropping his weapon, he grabbed her duster and lifted it in the air horizontally. Not being the type to lose gracefully, she held on with both hands. And with that, the battle became an odd kind of work out session, with Sean curling barbel-Elizabeth.

Sean: Wonder Woman has a tool belt.

Elizabeth: hee, hee, hee.

And so the question was never really answered - Does Wonder Woman have a tool belt? Should this even be an issue? Personally, I think that with an outfit that tight, we'd all know if she had tools strapped onto her waist. But that's just me.

Adventures in Disneyland

We have returned from our wonderful break to Disneyland, and we all thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. Elizabeth got a Minnie Mouse balloon, Mickey Mouse cookie, and got to tell us all what to do for three days. Anna spent most of her saved money buying gifts for herself and Elizabeth. I got to spend time with everyone and didn't have to think about making meals, cleaning, or even watching the kids for portions of the day. Sean got to be with us without the ever-present stress of work.

I thought I would post a few pictures here. Because everyone wants to be tormented with pictures of happy people in warm weather. Anna, you will notice, stresses out greatly whenever she has her picture taken. No, we were not yelling, beating, or demoralizing her. We were in the happiest place on earth, for heaven's sake. She is just not the photogenic type (is that mean for a mom to say?).

The whole Disneyland crew - yes, when we were all together it took about 30 minutes for us all to walk to the next attraction.

Here is Anna with her dad and Uncle Dan. Anna loved spending time with Aunt Katie and Uncle Dan. Since she was tall enough to go on all the "adult" rides, she kept begging to hang out with them while we took Elizabeth back to "Snow White's Scary Adventures" for the tenth time. Anna kept insisting that she loves roller coasters and that her favorite ride was Space Mountain. We are not so sure. The night we got back, she cried and said she was having a bad dream. When I said, "Just think about being back at Disneyland," she shrieked. The next day, she woke up and told Sean that she had a bad dream about going up and then falling down. The third night, she yelled out in her sleep, "Not the Tower of Terror! Not the Tower of Terror!" Perhaps she should have spent more time on "Snow White's Scary Adventures," which, as you can guess, is really not that scary (at least in the lack of physical jarring and dropping - I think that making adults dress up in special decorative coats to run rides in 80 or 90 degree weather is scary in a different way.)


Elizabeth was repeatedly amazed that all of her favorite Disney characters were actually real, but slightly alarmed that there was an extreme case of laryngitis at Disneyland that prohibited them all from speaking. She also learned that any character with a line more than 5 children long was off limits.


Sean was thrilled that he got to take the kids on the Dumbo ride. Someone had to take pictures, and since I get sick on spinning carnival-type rides, I opted out of this one. Incidentally, the line for this one seemed short, but it was about 45 minutes long. oops.


The kids in jail with cousin Nathan. By this point in the day, I was half wishing it was a real jail, connected to the Mommy spa. If they wanted to make some real money . . .















On the way home, Elizabeth started running a fever - a preview of things to come. She slept, while Anna worked on the hat she is making for her baby sister.

And when we arrived in Charlotte, the lovely weather was waiting for us. A freak snow storm that rocked the east coast, including North Carolina?

Since our arrival home, we have been snowed in, coughing like maniacs, swearing we will never make the 8-hour cross country flight again, and feverish. Oh yeah, and I taught the Young Women how to make bread.

At present the girls are both lying on the couch with their woobies. I cannot believe we are sick again. I have called in and excused Anna from school for three days in a row. I just don't think I can do it again. You know when someone says, "Okay. Thank you," but you know that you are being silently judged? I am considering having documented proof of their sickness to show the social work people when they show up. A dirty tissue, photographs of sick children, the pillow that has been violated due to a lack of tissue, and the blanket that was violated after the pillow (I still hadn't brought in tissue). Good grief, I think I need to do laundry.

But thank goodness we know that it all turns out alright.

Too heavy for the pregnant lady

At church on Sunday, I went to go drag in my own metal folding chair. Since I am now visibly pregnant, a woman jumped up, declaring, "You can't bring in your own chair; you're pregnant!"

Yikes! Do you know what a folding chair weighs? 10 pounds. If you're dragging it? Probably about 2 pounds. So I have been thinking about all the other things that I shouldn't be lifting.
- Elizabeth
- a bag of flour
- more than one can of beans
- my bag
- books
- any chairs
- toys (you know, the heavy ones)
- baskets of laundry
- dishes
- a 1980's Walkman

I can see it now . . .

Sean: "Honey, will you hand me that wrench?"

Me: "Sorry. Too heavy for the pregnant lady."

Anna: "Mom, can you get me a cup from the top shelf."

Me: "Sorry. Too high for the pregnant lady."

Elizabeth: "Mommy, can you make me lunch?"

Me: "Sorry. Too much exertion for the pregnant lady."

Me (Thinking): "I should really clean something up."

Me: "Sorry. Too icky for the pregnant lady."

So, as appealing as this is beginning to sound, I think I should stick to a more practical routine of "if it hurts, don't do it." Unfortunately, this includes walking on occasion. Perhaps I need to reconsider my thinking. I know that pregnancy is different for everyone, and that some women cannot lift things. But there are so many "pregnancy precautions" that always make my OB/Gyn laugh. You know that ones. Everyone has their own. So far I have been instructed to not lift anything; to "Sit Down! for heaven's sake"; to give my children Benadryl so I don't have to exert myself on the plane; to "Don't eat Chinese Food!" (what, pray tell, do you think Chinese women eat when they are pregnant?).

Ah, so instead I'm going to Disneyland with the family. After being manhandled through security in the airport, I will probably walk (waddle), lift, run (waddle faster), eat, and enjoy myself. I might even pull a chair over to sit on. Scandalous.

The evil kitchen

Elizabeth was watching Snow White today. She loves the evil stepmother, and especially enjoys the part where the draft of sleeping death is mixed together. She looked at me with big eyes and said "the witch is making poison apples in her evil kitchen." Hmmm. An interesting idea, this evil kitchen. I haven't even started dinner (5:15) and as I look at the pots, pans, utensils, and stove, I think my kitchen is just too evil to enter today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not. Sometimes it takes a couple of nights of not using them for evil kitchens to be completely rehabilitated.

The flu and the psychotic pregnant woman

Sean left for Las Vegas last week. The flu came to stay at my house last week. And it stayed, and stayed, and stayed. The girls each had it and vomited once. I was ready for my one vomit. I laid out towels, blankets, a bucket, and prepared myself. It came. I vomited every twenty minutes for a whole day. There are claw marks in the floor from where I drug myself to the bathroom over and over again. The girls watched me in fascinated horror. I'm sure they were asking themselves, "Where is all this coming from?"

From you, dear virus-filled children. From you.

By evening, it was clear that the kids were not going to be able to handle the stove to make themselves dinner, so I grabbed my bucket, threw the kids in the car, and drove to Wendys. I only vomited once on the way and hardly made any mess at all. Yes, my PJ bottoms were a little besmirched. My eye makeup a little askew. My ponytail sitting precariously above one ear. I didn't see the big deal. Yet the man at the drive through looked at me with the same look of fascinated horror as my children. "You close your fancy little window or I will show you the contents of my bucket" was the return look.

The window closed.

Thank goodness I finally stopped vomiting. For the next two days, I laid on the couch staring at the ceiling wondering when my time to die would come. My stomach was not strong enough to handle water, that most perfidious of beverages. I wore slippers and PJs into Anna's school to pick her up. She was lucky I didn't carry a bucket and my woobie. And then once I felt better, got the house back in order, and did all the laundry, Sean returned. "I think my stomach hurts," were the first words out of his mouth. He is lucky those were not the last words out of his mouth.

Anna's take on the whole business, "Mom was pretty gross. She threw up and then she couldn't even come and volunteer at my school library." Somehow that puts the whole ordeal in perspective.

So, long story short, that's why I haven't been blogging.

The Evil Aide

I have met her. My new arch nemesis. These people only come along once every five years or so. She works at Anna's school as a teachers' aide.

The woman's whole job description is to integrate ONE special needs boy into kindergarten. That's it. The evil aide has decided to enlarge her job description to include bouncing and verbally abusing every kindergartener (all 100) at the school. But I am onto her. She yelled at Elizabeth one day when we were picking up Anna from school (she won't again).

So last week I saw her do something resembling a screaming/pointing dance directed at a little girl for prematurely taking one bite of a cookie at the 100-day celebration (really, don't even get me started). I gave her the look of "You are despicable and I am shocked at your behavior" - the one that only a defensive mother can give. She looked away, but as we all know, you cannot escape that kind of glare. She couldn't help it. She looked back. And away again. And back. Like a moth to the flame. I held the glare as only a really angry mother can until she shuffled over to involve herself in some new important task, like handing out "eat and you will die a shameful death" 100-day cookies.

Today when we dropped off Anna, the evil aide started to shriek and gesture at my car to move forward faster to unload the kids (because we all know that it is worth the risk of running over a child if we can move everyone through the line faster). When she saw who was driving, she blanched. As she gently helped Anna out of the car, she sweetly straightened her backpack, smiled at her, and said kindly "Hello, Sweetie. How are you today?"

Ah, the power of the look.

Score -
Defender of (occasionally naughty but usually pretty good) defenseless kindergarteners (1), Evil Aide (0)

P.S. Yes, I am planning on making a formal complaint to the school. Just from what I have seen, that woman has manhandled at least 10 or 15 children. Except Anna, because her Mom has the look. (triumphant and somewhat evil laugh)

Supermom (Not me, of course)

You can probably tell, Elizabeth's obsessions with the Super Friends/Justice League has caught hold in our household. So, when I stumbled across the "SuperMom Action Figure" while I was online yesterday, I had to look. The mom, looking thrilled, in her fabulous dress clothes (straight from her high powered executive position), holding an equally happy baby, a grocery list, groceries, a purse, and a calculator. So I have been thinking about the idea of a "Supermom." Do you have to have a high-powered career to qualify? Do you need to wear the flawless suit of an executive? Dang it. I think I grew out of my only nice suit when I was three days pregnant with Anna.

I propose that a SuperMom is less defined by what she looks like than by how she influences those around her. If I created a SuperMom action figure, she would probably be in jeans, a ponytail, and with a spot of mustard on her shirt (because let's face it, somehow it happens every day). Her kids would look content, well fed, and on a good day might not have same mustard spot on them. In fact, if they are younger, they are probably wearing an assortment of their favorite clothing - capes, tutus, hats, or plastic shoes that click everytime they hit a solid surface. They have completed any homework, done their reading and chores, and now are harrassing Supermom. Because if you are Supermom, your kids are not going to get to do everything they want to. After a mostly nutritious dinner, they are on their way to bed while Supermom cheers up her Superhusband after his long day at work. Superhusband always looks dashing in his dress clothes, because Supermom can press shirts and slacks at the speed of light. Supermom looks tired by the evening, but she smiles as she thinks back on all the important things she has done - school projects, a game of make-believe, driven 10 times between the house and the school, wiped up tears, sang songs, changed diapers . . . she falls asleep before she can remember the rest.

When I think of it, Supermom kind of resembles my mom - except she always looked fabulous :).

We're having a . . .

Washing her mouth out with soap

So, our three-year-old has been having some kind of toddler PMS for the last week (or year). She has started stomping around when she is upset and retaliating in evil, underhanded ways when we won't let her do something. So last night when she got in trouble and then quietly went upstairs, we were concerned about what she was doing. The following conversation ensued:

Me: Anna, will you go upstairs and see what Elizabeth is doing?

Anna: I'm sure she's just making some more poison.

- silence -

Me: Excuse me? How does she make poison?

Anna: Oh, she's tried to poison me with soap in my water.

Me: You've drank water with soap in it?

Me (thinking): At least its only soap. Aren't the bubbles a dead giveaway?

Anna: Yes.

Me: How many times?

Me (thinking): You have got to be kidding me.

Anna: Four.

Me: Why did you drink it again after the first time she gave it to you?

Me (thinking): Anybody who didn't learn after the first time deserves the frothy bubbly mouth until they learn.

Anna: Well, she didn't tell me that there was soap in the water. She's very tricky, you know.

So, Elizabeth's dark side has been cropping up in interesting ways. I thought you couldn't go lower than the mullet. But, she has discovered a way to use her evil powers against her sister. When we asked her why she did it, she just laughed, and said "I didn't do it four times. I did it five." And I am pretty sure that it will happen again. Soon. Because, let's face it, its so funny that I'm tempted to do the same thing to Sean. I don't think that I am equipped to punish her for this yet. I will find the strength. I just need to work on my poker face first. I guess the lesson is that if Elizabeth ever offers you a beverage, you would probably be safer to wash your hand with it than to drink it.

School's Out!

I woke up this morning to the most fabulous news every child could ever hope to hear. School is cancelled. I'm not even in school, and I could feel the thrill of the news send chills through my body. When Anna yelled to her Dad to find out if it was time to get up yet, I responded that she didn't have to get up because she didn't have school. Wahoo!!! Unfortunately, my daughter has an internal clock without a snooze button. She was up promptly at 6:45, ready to eat cinnamon rolls with her Dad before he left for work. Elizabeth (the one who takes after me) slept in until almost 8:00, bless her heart and her internal snooze button.

After breakfast, Anna wanted to do what every kid staying home from school wants to do - watch all the TV that is on while she is at school. Because she was sure that "day TV" had some great undiscovered secret that she has been missing this whole school year. Sorry, if you aren't into Barney, completely implausible, semi-incestuous, bizarre relationships (soap operas), and poorly filmed courtroom brawls between angry toothless men and women, there is no great secret. To start off her big day of TV, she turned on . . . Sesame Street (no, we don't have cable). I gave in and let her watch it, partly because I was laughing almost to the point of bathroom break time. I mean, she has never liked Sesame Street. In fact, she has previously hated it, crying if it was ever on. It was babyish two years ago. But now it has the benefit of being unknown and mysterious. She was trying hard to look very entertained, because you know that it is so much cooler if you are missing school to do it. She actually enjoyed the following, which I find disturbing for a number of reasons. Watch on, if you can stand more than a minute of it. Make sure you see the lamb attack Murray.



So, I really do find this disturbing. Who taught Murray how to rap? And why didn't he invest his efforts instead into getting that horrible underbite fixed? What I truly find interesting is that Murray (who only speaks English) and the lamb (who only speaks Spanish) spend all of their time together, and yet Murray knows less Spanish than I do (10 words). What is keeping this friendship alive? Clearly they use each other to fulfill their needs - Murray needs to say he has a friend, because let's face it, he doesn't exactly hang with the Big Bird crowd. The abusive lamb doesn't care that Murray won't learn Spanish so he can communicate with her, she just wants him to hang around so she can randomly beat him with karate belts. It is so sad.

So here we are; Sesame Street is over and now we are just trying to survive our "Winter weather storm advisory red alert day." I think that the weatherman may have made a mistake (see picture). Today is more like a "drizzling weather, but you live in Virginia, not Arizona, for Heaven's sake, so what is everyone freaking out about? day." Please, I grew up in Montana. I only ever had 1 snow day in 15 years. That's right. ONE. And that was because we had sub-zero temperatures with snow drifts and ice so high that they couldn't get any plows through. Now that is a snow day.

Another Naef

So I have been racked with guilt since we moved here. We were pretty sure that we were expecting another baby by the time we moved, but we didn't want to say anything so early, so . . . um . . . we didn't. Now it is getting kind of late to say anything. But it is much more uncomfortable to tell everyone after the blessed event (the birth). Dum, Dum, Dum, Dum (trumpets) We will be having another baby at some point in time around the middle of June. Here is a picture of the child at 12 weeks. (Looks just like Daddy).

We find out next Tuesday if we are having a boy or a girl. Anna is just excited to hold and take care of anything miniature; she doesn't care if its a boy, girl, or alien (which is good, considering what babies look like right after they are born). Elizabeth thinks that our family can only have girls, a sentiment that Sean is starting to share. She has chosen two names (Wonder Woman and Hawk Girl). I have vetoed two names and decided that the Justice League cartoons and actions figures need to be shelved for a while.

I am just wondering what happened to my poor little body. I have had the strangest pregnancy symptoms. I have had major cravings - for food. Any food. As long as its edible and tasty. My weight has been going up really, really fast, and so I thought I should keep a food journal. When I considered that it would resemble something like the twelve days of Christmas (12th day everyday), I thought that might be a little demoralizing. It would probably go something like this.

On everyday of pregnancy, my fridge gave up to me:
12 cups of juice
11 tasty cookies
10 bags of chips (you have to get your veggies somewhere)
9 bowls of cereal
8 yummy pastries
7 pieces of bacon
6 ham sandwiches
5 HUMONGOUS MEALS
4 bowls of ice cream
3 apple slices
2 vitamins (thank you Sean)
And a roasted pig just for me.

I exaggerate a little bit (but not as much as all of you horror-struck friends wish I was). Sean has learned not to ask where food items went while he was at work. Okay, now I'm starting to get really hungry.

Besides, the hunger, I have discovered that pregnancy symptoms for the third child follow this little formula:

1+2-4+12=3
That would be 1st pregnancy pains + 2nd pregnancy pains appearing 4 months earlier + 12 new and humiliating symptoms = 3rd pregnancy.

The other fun thing? Insurance. Gotta love it. I kid. It has been horrible. Since we were on one group health insurance policy at the beginning, and then switched to a short term policy that did not cover pregnancy (none of them do, actually), and then are finally getting on new group insurance in February, my life has been an endless stream of phone calls to the Doctors office, billing office, insurance office, other insurance office, HR benefits specialist . . . Repeat.

But the fun thing is that this is an incredibly mobile baby. She/he moves and kicks pretty much full time. Just that makes everything worth all the hassle. We will have to give the baby a truly representative name, something worthy of an amazing child - a name like Wonder Woman (or Batman, if its a boy).