What I wish someone had told me while I was pregnant with my first baby

A few years ago I got an email from one of my friends from high school. The subject line was "Knocked Up" and she was basically announcing that she and her husband were pregnant and looking for advice about babies.

So, being the opinionated friend that I am, I sent her a big long email with all the stuff I could think of that I wished someone had told me while I was first pregnant and looking into that parenting vortex.

And a few months later I got another email from another friend who was newly pregnant and looking for advice. And a little later, I got another one.

So eventually I had this email all ready to go for anyone who asked.

Then I got my own website. And I decided it would be fun to put something like that on my site. It's been there under my IFAQs ever since.

Today I decided it is blog worthy, with a few additions.

Keep in mind that this is just what I've learned on my parenting journey. I realize that it absolutely reflects my parenting style and personality and you can take it all with a grain of salt. But it is honestly a whole lot of the things I do wish someone had taken the time to tell me when I was pregnant the first time.

Pregnancy:
-Get pictures of you pregnant. You are cute. You just might not feel cute.
-What are you having? Piglets. Puppies. Whatever.
-We left something as a surprise--gender, name, both--doesn't matter. Makes it more exciting for other people I think. And once the baby comes, it's fun to tell the anxious folks (grandparents in particular) and hear their reactions.

Child birth:
-Don't listen to horror stories. The people who share them to scare you are all dumb and you are going to be a champ.
-You get to decide what they do to you, not them. If you don't want poked, don't let them poke you. If they look at you like you are crazy, give them the "I'm the pregnant one here. It is all about me right now" look. Kick them if you have to. Well, maybe not kick them, but that can be worked into the look. And see if you can get your OB/MW to write it in your chart.
-Your husband will never know what it's like to be pregnant or in labor. That's okay. He's a good guy and I'm sure he'll be great in the delivery room.
-A good doula is a great investment. Another person. Another advocate. And she is there the whole time to reassure you that everthing is normal, rub your back, get the nurse, get ice, get a hot pack, help you in and out of the tub, help your husband help you, etc. Nurses are not there the whole time and their job is to poke you.
-Your body knows what it is doing. If you hit a wall, give it 10 minutes and maybe have them get you some juice or pop. A little sugar goes a long way.
-If you don't want to have drugs, make up your mind and they are not an option. Tell everyone involved that they are not an option. If you think you might want them, that's okay and you'll probably end up getting them. Personally, I broke my toe while pregnant with number 2 and found that to be much more painful than labor. I took drugs for my toe but didn't with my labors.
-birthplan.com A great site for thinking through what you want and don't want.

Babies:
-They are beautiful. They are fragile. But they are tough little things. After all, they were just squeezed down a small tube into a cold, bright world.
-You get to decide how much they poke your baby, too. And asking them to wait until you decide is fine.
-Wear your baby! It's the best thing about babies. Whether it's a wrap, pouch, ring sling or mei tai, it's one of the greatest joys of being a parent. (And I might have a lead on some great mei tais--oh wait, I make them! Hahaha!) Seriously, wear your baby. And get your husband to do it, too.
-You can't really spoil a baby by holding him/her too much. Some babies like to be held, some have a limit. If you want to hold your baby all the time, you should. And you should do it guilt free. If your baby wants to be held all the time, you should get a few good carriers and hold that baby as much as that baby wants to be held.
-Breastfeeding is great. You will never look at your boobs the same again. Your boobs will never look the same again. Your boobs will not be yours again for a while. You will also realize that you've never SEEN your boobs that many times in a 4 hour period. EVER. And how did that boob get bigger than the baby's head?? But the convenience and health benefits far outweigh any of that.
-Learn to nurse in bed--everyone sleeps better that way. We put our kids to bed in their beds and they wake up in ours. Weird how that happens. Drunk people, obese people, and drunk obese people shouldn't sleep with their children. And sleeping on the couch with a baby isn't a good idea.
-Nurse at home like you want to in public. Strechy camisoles are great under regular shirts. Shirt goes up, Cami goes down with the nursing bra. No big HEY LOOK AT ME I'M NURSING! blanket. And you don't chain yourself to the public bathroom. I always just found a quiet corner with a chair. There are lots of those around. And if you get really good at it, only other mamas who nurse in public and their husbands will know what you are doing. And they'll smile at you in a way that says, YOU GO GIRL!!! And nursing in a carrier is a fabulous thing to learn as well.
-Babies don't need to take up as much space as Walmart thinks they do. You don't need the high chair, the bouncer, the swing, the jumper, the playmat, the other jumper, that giant stroller, the little stroller, the playpen, AND the 101 other giant plastic gadgets they make you feel like you can't live without. One or two of them is good. A high chair is good when they start sitting up. You get to decide.
-Don't read parenting magazines. They only freak you out and are out to make money off of you by making you paranoid. Wanna know how to install a carseat and put your kid in it properly? Go down to the fire station and ask. If they can't tell you, they know where you can find out. Want to know about child proofing your house? Have a friend with small children over and the kids will show you what you need to do in less than 10 minutes
-Give cloth diapers a chance..
-A baby's wants are a baby's needs. A le Leche League leader at the meetings I went to always said that. Babies only want what they need. They need fed, changed, and a sense of security. We are their feeders, changers, and we are their security. Hold them when they cry, feed them when they are hungry, change them when they need changing. By doing this we teach them that they can trust us and count on us when they need us. That makes for happy, healthy, confident kids.



Do you have anything you'd like to add to my list? Please do!

Such a lovely homecoming

I love Yellowstone. We had a great time over the weekend. We've had a great time in Yellowstone all summer, but this trip was different. I think it was different because having hit all the major tourist stops, we started looking at the paths off to the side and took about three of them. And we found new treasures.

But when we came home, we looked across the fields of gold and Brent commented, "It's good to come home, away from all those people."

And then we walked around the other side of the house to this:



Yes. This is where we belong.

There's something about the harvest

I grew up on a farm. Farming is in my blood. The rhythms of the seasons, the smells, the sights, and the sounds. Agriculture is a great part of my life. And really it's a great part of what America is.

It's harvest season here in Idaho. The grain is ripe and the combines are churning though the fields of gold. The grain elevators in town have grain trucks lined up waiting to unload so they can go back for more. It's beautiful.



We moved to Idaho just as the farmers were getting ready to plant their crops. Then they spent the summer irrigating them. Irrigation is a great irritation in my life. Someday maybe I'll let you in on my experiences. But irrigation is necessary.

Last night the combines were churning away at the field around our house. And I'm the new lady in town who was out there taking pictures of it. I'm sure they all think I'm a nut. I wanted to holler at them, "I have a blog!" But I don't think they care if I have a blog. So I just smiled at myself and kept taking pictures.



It's mesmorizing.

Check out these camo grain trucks. Talk about repurposed.



Farmers are good at that you know. They have to be. There isn't a whole lot of money in farming these days. Seems they're too good at it for their own good any more.

But while we were standing on the road watching the sites, this comes our way.



Dang these things are big.



And they are EVERYWHERE!



Like giant bugs. It's almost as if there was a giant combine hatch around here.



For example, here are the two that were working on the field by our house. And if you look, in the background there's another.



Across the road there was another. And while we were standing there, TWO of them went by.

Brent even reported getting stuck behind one on the freeway one evening on his way home from work. You know it's harvest time here in Idaho when that happens.

Calla announced that she wants to buy a combine. Brent informed her that it probably would cost more than our house. I think he's right.



They harvest into the night, as long as it doesn't get too moist out.



And their wives let them.



Not that their wives are controlling. It's just that a farmer's work is never done.



And sometimes somebody has to help him draw the line.



Have I mentioned lately that I love Idaho?

Potato harvest is next. They are already preparing the fields. I'm excited to see this. We actually get two weeks off of school for the harvest. It's a lot of work apparently. Maybe I'll try to get in on it just so I can blog it.

I'm sure they'll think I'm a total nut then.

My husband's sock drawer

I was putting his socks away last week and realized that his sock drawer is pretty much a metaphor of how he sees the world in general.



Black and white with VERY LITTLE grey area.

I love that man. I wonder what he'll say when he realizes that I posted a picture of his sock drawer for the world to see. Still, it totally cracks me up.

Obviously I'm easily entertained. That's probably what happens when one lives in the country surrounded by potato fields with no television for too long.

Yes, Grace. We do live in the country, but . . .

My little earth-conscious child. I love her. And for some reason she has it in her head that since we live in the country, we have the option of not using electricity, because apparently using electricity is bad now.

This weekend she asked, "Mom, when are we going to start using just candles for light, build a fire, and wash our clothes in a bucket and dry them on a clothes line?"

My dear, sweet Grace. I know you have the best intentions, but going off the grid might just make my head explode.

And that would be messy.

I thought they were giant bees in my lilac bush

But in fact they were not!




There were about a dozen of them. Dragonflies are so neat to watch.

The ultimate man purse

Let me tell you a little bit about my husband. He's a great guy. But you already knew that. He's pretty handy to have around, too. He's built barns and decks and fixed stuff that needed fixing. When we got married, he wasn't quite that handy. But he always had potential.

This past weekend I realized that one of the reasons he's become so handy is because he has the ultimate man purse. His truck.




This thing is basically about 10 years of tools, duct tape, jacks, bent rusty nails, tie downs, and orange plastic tape accumulated in one spot. The truck has been everywhere. And he recently used the sledge hammer to get a dent out of it--a dent he put in it with his tractor. I'll admit, it does look better.

On our way to the reunion this weekend our 5th wheel trailer suffered a flat tire.



So while I entertained the girls (we had limped it in the mile or so to the little town we were planning to stay at), he went to work changing the tire. It all went well until he couldn't get one of the nuts off the spare because the wrench didn't fit. So he rummaged through his truck and emerged with the tool for the weed eater. Ta-da! All fixed! He was proud and I fed him bar-b-qued burgers for dinner.

We made it to my grandma's house for the reunion. This year we were also celebrating my grandparent's 60th wedding anniversary. My youngest cousin, who is also a hero, brought a giant tent for the party--he works at one of those rental stores and got it for free! Go Ethan!

So they were all out there setting it up and there are these giant stakes that need to be pounded in the ground. But no hammers. Brent goes to his ultimate man purse and emerges with a big hammer and an ax. A few minutes later all the stakes are in the ground and the tent is up.



The next day he pulled out the gas can so the parade could go on (see yesterday's post).



The final incident--another flat tire. At midnight on Monida pass. This time the jack won't go under the axle, so out comes the big hammer and he hammers it under the axle. Problem solved.

And the weed eater tool wasn't cutting it because the tire shop had used one of those air wrenches to get the tire back on. Brent stands back and says, "Now let's think about this." When he says that, I know something good is coming.

"I have a crescent wrench in here."

And ta-da! We're on our way.

I had to giggle last night when we went for a walk. Someone is building a house and they had a ladder in the back of a truck and they were standing on the ladder with a nail gun, nailing away. He was in awe. "Look, they have the compressor in the back and . . . that's just a sweet set up."

I love this guy. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, honey!



You know though, guys like this are impossible to shop for. I'm still stumped.

It's 11:20 pm

And everyone in the house is asleep. Except me. Why? Because I am a night person trapped in the world of morning people.

I married a morning person. My husband loves mornings. To him it's the best time of the day. He's up and at it early enough to watch the sun rise. If breakfast happens after 9:00, he comments that it's lunch time and rolls his eyes.

Then there's me. And the other half of the world, really. People like me who would rather sleep until about 8:30 or so and then go about their business most of the day and into the night. Far into the night. Because that's when it's quiet and I can function.

Early mornings actually make me ill. When we flew to Oregon last week, our flight time required that I get up at 4:45am. I knew I was in trouble. I felt like I wanted to vomit until about 11:00. It's just how my body works.

The world commends people who get up at the crack of dawn and get busy. I'm not sure why morning people rule the world. Maybe because they are the first at it every day. Maybe because they are the loudest, especially in the morning when I'm still trying to get my wits about me. But somehow people like me are labeled as lazy. I'm not lazy. I can accomplish quite a lot in a day. Quite a lot.

So, for all you morning people out there, I don't hate you. I promise I don't hate you. But could you PLEASE understand that my body does not function like yours. And sleeping until 8:30 in the morning does NOT make me lazy. Early bird catches the worm, sure. But the night owl does eats fine as well. It just happens when the early birds are done for the day.

They should pay me for this idea

At my in-laws this last week I watched some television. My kids found Sprout--which beats the socks off of Sponge Bob in my humble opinion. Sponges don't have brains and he is no exception.

Anyway, The Food Network got some serious action while I was there. Not by me directly, but it was on. And I enjoyed watching the pieces of it I did get to watch. Mind you I'm not going to go out and get Direct TV or anything crazy like that. We don't even have our antenna hooked up since the move if that tells you anything. But I still think they should pay me. Why?? Because I cook and I have an idea.

Iron Chef is fun to watch. But these people are pretty extreme. And their food is extreme. I live in Eastern Idaho. I'm not sure we have Direct TV here, let along 3/4 of the ingredients they use on Iron Chef. I don't have nearly the gadgets they have either.

And I cook on a clock--sort of. So what if they had a show where they took 2 or so moms, gave them a "regular" pantry set of ingredients and "regular" kitchen gadgets and told them they had 45 minutes to make dinner--with a main dish, a side and a vegetable. But then there are elements that make it more interesting.

For example, the assigned meal was a regular dish like tuna noodle casserole. But when the clock starts they discover they only have 1 can of tuna, or no tuna at all. And then the Pastor is coming for dinner and he can't have gluten.

Or the assigned meal is hamburgers. The clock starts and the burger is still frozen solid. And there are only 1/2 the number of buns as there are people to feed.

The judges wouldn't be culinary experts who judge on all the merits of a meal like presentation and . . . I don't even know what they judge on, really. I missed that part of the show when I was helping with dinner I think. The judges should be regular moms, maybe even picked from a studio audience, who judge only on whether their family would eat the meal or not.

And the winner gets her pantry stocked for 6 months. Or a trip to Hawaii. Or something that a practical mom who can cook killer hamburgers in 45 minutes or less even if she's given frozen burger and 1/2 as many buns as she needs.

Because moms like that are awesome and we could all learn a thing or two from a show like that. Even if it's just a new perspective for those who find dinner on the table every night and really have no idea how it got there.

I wonder if he still does.

Twilight confessions

I am soooooo out of the loop on this craze. Not that I want to be in the loop, but a couple weeks ago I was at Target with a friend and she bought the movie saying, "You know, Kalama." I had no idea what she meant.

Later I found out what she meant. And it totally cracked me up. I actually taught for four years at the school in the town where the movie was filmed.

I had no idea. And now I will slink happily back into my vampire-free cave and sew. Or rather cook and clean for now since my sewing room is still waiting to be finished. :)

Happy Babywearing!

What did he do with her?

Last Wednesday was gorgeous around here. Sunny and 60 degrees. Perfect. On the way home from picking Grace up from preschool I was plotting how to get them outside for a long period of time so I could pack and clean and all that stuff I must do.

But my thoughts were interrupted, like they usually are. You know how it is. But this time it wasn't by a kid wanting something or two kids arguing in the back seat or whatever it is that they could possibly interrupt me with. It was a tandem bicycle. Not too uncommon, except this one only had one person on it. It was odd to see, and then I got kind of scared. What had he done with his wife?????? Was she somewhere in a ditch and he didn't know? Did he put her there with sinister intent?

Then I realized it was late afternoon and he was probably just going into town on the bike to get her from work and have a leisurely ride home. That's what I decided to believe anyway. He looked nice enough. I hope they enjoyed the sunshine and had a lovely afternoon.

Recovering comb over-er

I was at church on Sunday and in my scanning from the back to see who is there I noticed that "Paul" no longer had his comb over! It was gone!

Now, this particular comb-over was beyond its prime years ago and was well into simply obnoxious hair that doesn't do its job because there is too much real estate to cover for the amount of coverage available. And on top of it, he doesn't have the type of hair that easily lends itself to comb over-ing. It was the thinning hair that is course and fuzzy. Nothing like The Donald.

But then I started wondering what one would say to someone who has recovered from the comb-over.

"Hey! It's gone!"

"You got a hair cut! Looooong time a'coming, eh?"

"Dude, I can't believe your wife let you walk around like that for that long."

I settled for turning around to my friend and whispering, "Hey! Paul got rid of the comb over!" She was equally impressed.

But I must say, he does look better. More confident.

I Googled "comb over" and according to Wikipedia, "A variation of the combover (whereby baldness is concealed by long hairs combed in three separate directions) has a U.S. Patent 4,022,227 by Donald J. Smith and his father, Frank J. Smith, of Orlando, Florida, who were awarded an Ig Nobel Prize in Engineering for their effort."

Who knew?? Maybe if I were in high school still, Marvin would write an informative speech on it for speech class. I wonder what he could dig up?? He was great at that. I can't say I'll ever forget his speech about windows and the other one about penguins. (Hello Marvin!)

Thankfully my husband just told me he doesn't think he could grow his hair out long enough for a comb over. I love that man. But I probably also wouldn't be the wife of the guy who is on the receiving end of, "Dude, I can't believe your wife let you walk around like that for that long." I just don't work like that. So, unless one of us is dead and the other has dementia, we should be safe.

I don't know what to say

Meet Amy.



She USED to be a spoiled dog. So spoiled that she was fully insured and she got boiled chicken for dinner every night. So spoiled that she did what she wanted when she wanted and was doted on every moment of the day. So spoiled that her previous owner probably had actual wheels on her vacuum cleaner. (Oh wait, that's me thinking I need a new vacuum again. I need to stop that or I might have to go vacuum shopping. That ranks right up there with car shopping. Eeek!)

Then she moved in with us. I didn't give her boiled chicken. We canceled her insurance. We have three kids and she is treated like a dog. To add insult to injury, I still think Amy is a weird name for a dog and she now has a bad haircut. (finding a good groomer after you move is HARD!)

Now, you know those times when you walk into a room and what you find there just makes you stand there and chuckle and shake your head.



I think she's dreaming of the good ole' days.

My million dollar idea--you saw it here first.

I want to come up with a method to hypnotize children between the ages of about two years and eight years so that at bed time when their parents kiss them and tell them they are loved and to have sweet dreams they fall into a blissful sleep until morning when they are either well rested or their parents wake them up. That would make the world a better place.

Darn cell phone

My cell phone is beginning to die. Last Friday I think it actually over-heated and then dropped the call I was on. I had to turn it off and on to get it to make and receive calls again. And it is not holding a charge like it should. You know that phase of a cell phone's life.

I wouldn't mind so much if it was not my ONLY phone right now. I also wouldn't mind so much if I didn't feel like the cell phone company just wants to suck more money out of me. I think they conspire against us with their two-year contracts and phones that they design to only last a year to a year-an-a-half and their *free* phone offer if you extend your contract another two years. It always makes me feel gouged.

And then there is that stupid message that means nothing and contains very long pauses. "123-456-7890 (paaaause) is not available. (paaaaause) Please leave a message after the tone. (paaaaause) To leave a callback number, press 5. (paaaaause) When you are finished, hang up, or press # for more options. (paaaause) beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!"

On top of the pauses, she speaks veryyyyyy sllllowwwwwlyyyyyyyy.

I have a list of issues with this message.

1) It is long. Longer than necessary. In fact, I'd argue that it isn't necessary at all. Just go to the beep and I'll leave a message. Or, give the number or the name and so straight to the beep.

2) How many people have pushed 5? Ever? I never have. I don't even know why a callback number would be necessary. Numbers calling my phone come through in the caller ID. And if it doesn't, those who endured the message can leave it in the voice mail. Duh.

3) People who create their own message for their phone usually say something like: "Hi! You've reached (me). Leave a message and I'll call you back." So, duh. They've identified themselves and said they'd call you back. No need for the big long explanation after their message. Seems redundant.

4) She tells you to hang up after you've left your message. Was this a problem? People just never hung up? I doubt it. It feels like they are leaving instructions on how to leave a message. I don't know of too many people who have never left a message. My grandma has, my grandpa has, even my 3-year-old has. And I think it's safe to assume the vast majority of people in between have. In the 25+ years that message machines have been around, I think it's safe to assume most people know what they are doing by now.

5) I need to figure out how to get that message off of there. But that isn't easy, either. If you are trying to do it, you have to go through 17 different 12-option menues to get there and then you get cut off because your phone has over heated and drops the call. Cripes.

And don't get me started on all the options now. I don't like flip phones. I'm not into the full keypad. I don't want a touch screen. And I don't need a phone with a camera. Flip phones feel like they are going to break in half to me and all the rest of the options just seem like fluff. I just want a phone that makes calls, holds its charge, doesn't overheat, and rings when someone is calling me. But I'm sure that would cost me an arm and a leg.

Super Bowl Sunday

Hello, my name is Heidi. I'm a terrible American. It wasn't until last week that I realized that today is the big game. And it wasn't until today that I figured out which teams were playing.

Please don't hate me.

Birthday parties done "Heidi Style"

When my husband and I were dating and newly married, it took me at least three years to remember his birthday. Not remember his birthday in the sense that I forgot the actual day, but remember it in the sense that I knew the day and month if I was suddenly asked to supply it. (I'm having the same problem with our newest child. I'm still not 100% sure if it's the 14th or the 15th. Hopefully I'll figure that out sooner rather than later.) Basically, if you are my friend and I don't remember your birthday, don't take it personally, please.

Birthday parties are a mystery to me. I don't do birthday parties. Well, I do birthday parties. But I don't do them the way I'm *supposed* to do them. And I do them just because my kids like them for their birthdays and grandmas and grandpas like to come celebrate.

Calla turned three this past weekend. And she's been talking about and planning her birthday since at least August. Then about three weeks ago she started telling people that she was having a Tinker Bell birthday party. I was on the hook for that now, too. Dang it.

She's turning three. Her first birthday party we had to reschedule twice because she was sick. We finally had it sometime the end of February. Last year she got sick again, but only once. And then the day of the rescheduled party we had freezing rain. It was the best party ever. Grandma and grandma and grandpa braved the rain and mom and dad and her big sister were obviously there. Just enough company for a two-year-old and just enough presents for a two-year-old. It was perfect.

This year it was Tinker Bell or bust. And it becomes a story of how babywearing saved the birthday party.

Birthday party was scheduled for Sunday. I reserved the church since the thought of so many people in my house made me crazy. We live in a small house, now. A really small house. And I didn't want to clean it for a party. There. I said it. Judge me all you want.

My plan was to make a cake, buy some Tinker Bell plates and napkins and cups, open presents, and call it a party. As the day got closer, I started to wonder what else I should do to make it a party. My friends don't really have very high expectations for things like this. They know me. Blessedly my newest sister-in-law called inquiring about the Tinker Bell party. "Can we get some party hats and blowers or something?" Heck yea! I'm getting plates and cups and napkins. (The napkins didn't happen, but kids don't need napkins, right?)

Then our baby got a fever. On Saturday we took her to the doctor and they sent us to the emergency room for the evening. Grandma and the girls made the cake while we were gone. "Mom, just pour it in a 9 x 13 and bake it." I'm so fancy.

Sunday came and I stayed home from church with a sick baby. And I decided we should play a game at the party. Musical chairs. It's free, doesn't involve scary clowns, and it's fun to watch a bunch of preschoolers (and Ian) try to figure it out.



Clara! There's a chair! Sit in that chair!






















This picture made me laugh. They were SO fast. Grandma got a kick out of it. And see her using her new camera? You go Grandma!




























Cole was the champion. We played three games and he won two. See him sitting there all smug?



I tried to help Clara--as did everyone else. But alas. She just wasn't fast enough. Not by a mile. She barely beat Cole's sister. Mackenzie isn't even two yet. It must be a genetic talent.



Cake! Yay! See that excited little head under there?





























SOOOO EXCITING! She can barely contain herself.





Took her a few tries to get the candles blown out. We'll have to practice before next year.








But she got them.



And her cake. Her Devil's-Food-out-of-a-box topped with whipped topping that we stirred strawberries into. Seriously good stuff. But we forgot the ice cream at home. Nobody missed it that I heard of.




And her presents. This one HAPPENS to be from her sister. Her sister is apparently SO excited for her to open it that she MUST help.

The game, cake and presents went so fast (the beauty of Heidi Style with the added urgency of a sick baby) that we still had time to kill, so we busted out the dot paints she got as a present. She was thrilled to share them with everyone. Better than party favors. The kids loved them. Including Ian.



If you must ask, yes, I made that dress.


I made Grace's too. They picked out their fabric.


Calla picked out the tights and shoes.


Don't argue with the three-year-old. It does no good to try to tell her that black tights and brown shoes do not go well with bright and cheery birthday dresses.


Thanks to Uncle Lance and Aunt Kristina, Tinker Bell made it to the part--in person. Calla was thrilled.



While the kids were painting, we cleaned up. The whole party start to finish was done in record time.


At home after she swept the floor with the broom and dustpand grandma got her (much safer than the adult sized one she has been wielding) she put the pajamas from grandma on and got out the doctor kit grandma gave her. She enlisted the help of Doctor Dad.












THAT'S WHAT YOU GET FOR TRYING TO OPEN MY PRESENTS!!

















That kid. She's something else. I love her.

Happy Babywearing! (It saves birthdays.)

Of dogs and puppies

We are dog people. We are not dog people in the sense that we are obsessed with dogs and have dogs that are ultra pampered and spoiled. They are taken care of and quite comfortable, but I actually had a friend tell me that I'm the ONLY person she knows who treats her dogs like dogs. Apparently I'm a dying breed.

We are dog people in the sense that we are not cat people. Nothing against cats. I'm half allergic to them and can never figure them out. Too complicated I guess. And they belong outside. But outside there are coyotes. So, we don't have cats.

Yes, we are dog people. But we are NOT puppy people. The two dogs that we have right now we did not have as puppies. They came to us after the puppy thing was over. One is a rescue dog that was abused and eventually abandoned by her former owners. The other was the pampered pooch of an elderly lady who passed away. I would argue that they are two of the best dogs on the planet for many reasons. One comes when she's called and the other one doesn't shed. I'm obviously not too hard to please.

Yesterday my brother came into town. He brought his puppy. His little cute beagle puppy. His cute little impulse buy beagle puppy that his wife fell in love with at the pet store. He's pretty smitten himself. How can you not be? Look at that face.



But, she is a puppy. My husband came home and was home for a grand total of ten minutes before he commented, "If we ever get a puppy again, one of us has dementia, and the other one . . . "

"Is dead?" I finished for him.

"Yea."

We've had our share of dogs that weren't so great. One was named Sadie. She shed unbelievable amounts of hair for a smooth-coat dog. She was part dalmation. If you've ever had a dalmation, you probably know where I'm going with this. If you've never had a dalmation, don't get one. She spent the better part of her life jumping fences (8 foot chain-link fences) and running away.

I spent the better part of my life while we had her chasing her around city streets furious that she wouldn't come and worried she'd get hit by a car. Two emotions that when experienced together at that level of intensity make normal level-headed people such as myself wish for some sort of medication. Really it was probably the dog that needed it, but I was driven to the brink by that dog. On a regular basis.

My brother's theory is that we gave her the wrong name. Like she would have answered to a different name.

I doubt it. But it's a good theory.

Road trip!

We've been on the road for two weeks. Just got back yesterday. Great fun. Really. With three little girls in the back seat for over 1400 miles--600 or so of those miles covered in ice and/or snow--we can honestly say that we had a grand time. I love the little portable DVD players. And Santa must have known we were headed out and needed him to come early. The bugger sneaked some new Barbie movies into their backpacks after I had packed them. I love Santa.

On the way back we stopped for lunch in Kellogg, Idaho. A little burger joint called Sam's. Good food. Relaxed and kid friendly without being McDonalds. And the bathrooms are clean.

So while we're waiting for our food, our five-year old is rolling around on the bench, her little stuck-in-the-car body just itching for something to do. So, I showed her this trick:



What good mother (who was the champion spoon sticker to the nose at summer camp) would NOT teach her kids how to do it?



How does that go?





Now Calla is the world's slowest eater. And she fell off the height/weight chart at about 6 months. But that was when she started moving and she hasn't stopped since. But it's meals like these that make me wonder how she stays so slender.



Yes, that is a bacon cheese burger basket with the bacon on the side. Yes, that is a little tub of butter sitting there. Grace gave it to her after she asked so sweetly. "Dace, can I has yo butter, pees?" Grace had pancakes (they serve breakfast all day).

Then she proceeds to do this:



Yes, she is buttering her burger. And yes, she proceeded to EAT it. Nearly ALL of it. I guess everything IS better with butter.

Good times. I love my kids. They are fun. Even after being stuck in the car of nearly a week.

Happy Babywearing!