The no-shower, Saturday morning routine

Over the last couple months, I have been solidifying a Saturday morning routine that I am beginning to love. Hubby gets up with Cavan at 8-ish and I sleep in till 9 or 10 a.m. I then throw in a load of laundry, brush my teeth, and put in my contacts before heading upstairs to join the family. We hang out as Daddy makes eggs and toast (and bacon on a good day), have breakfast together, and then Daddy gets to work on his projects for the day. With her full belly, Cavan is content to play by herself or with me verbally interacting with her as I clean the kitchen/living space. After the kitchen is clean, Cavan and I (or just myself) pick up all the toys and random stuff strewn about after a work-weeks-worth of only lazy tidying up, and it's time to vacuum. Which I love.

Vacuuming is so satisfying for so many reasons. A good vacuuming (along with the preliminary de-cluttering) makes such a dramatic visual improvement that it makes Mommy feel like a good housekeeper (at least once or twice a week!) Secondly, emptying the canister is both completely disgusting—you mean all of that dirt and dog hair was on the floor, eeeww—and completely fullfilling—I just eliminated all of that dirt and dog hair from the floor, yeah! Third, Cavan enjoys vacuuming: she has a toy vacuum that she pushes around with me and today when I finished she said, "Good job Mommy!" The best mommy reward.

Then it's lunch time/reading time/playtime, until Cavan goes down for a nap at 2 p.m. or so. Since I can usually count on a two-three hour nap out of her, the monitor goes in the window and out I go to garden. The last week or so I haven't been able to go bananas in the garden because my six-month preggers belly gets in the way and makes me tired, but I'm able to at least be mildly productive. Check out my progress on the veggie garden: "The Almost Green Thumb—More than a box of dirt."

Finally, time for my shower after getting completely sweaty-bug-sprayed-dirty outside. Cavan then wakes up, we have a snack and a sippy (she has the sippy, I should say) and outside we go to play. [By the way, my foot just fell asleep—I hate that!]

I love my weekends. I love when weekends are MINE—no responsibilities or engagements to attend. There is no better feeling than working on your property and improving your home.

Nothing like puking up your Easter feast (not for the weak-stomached ;)

Since I started my blogs, I haven't gone more than every-other-day without making a post, and most days, I post something daily to at least one of the two. But Sunday's festivities took their toll on both Hubby and I and temporarily derailed the blog (and all normal activities).

We hosted Easter dinner—chile/ginger pork loin, mashed potatoes, gravy, appetizers, and apple pie. About 10 minutes after our family guests left, I head to the bathroom and spontaneously puke my guts out. While I am ralphing, Hubby puts Cavan to bed. And a half hour later, he heads to the bathroom for his Round #1. And we continue both alternating and simultaneous digestive evacuation all night.

And both of us discover the little known benefits of both of our bathrooms. Our upstairs bathroom is a teeny half bath—the corner, wall-mounted sink is immediately in front of the toilet, so close that you can puke into it while clearing your colon in the toilet. Similarly, our downstairs, full bath has an interesting feature as well.

The full bath is rather contemporary—the shower has no walls. We have a rain head protruding from the ceiling, and the floor is graded to flow into the center drain. So someone like Hubby, with the ability to projectile vomit, if necessary, can also sit on the pot on one side of the room, spray the contents of his stomach all over the floor, turn on the shower, and just squeegee the mess right down the drain. Talk about easy clean up.

Have you discovered the theme of the last couple days?

But the real hardship of this extravaganza was not the agony of the stomach bug, though excruciating. It was that BOTH Hubby and I sick simultaneously. Because then there's two-year-old, energetic Cavan, who still needs care. Thank goodness that none of our high-volume, violent vomiting woke her up! But come 8 a.m., she was awake and ready to play. This is where Mommy superpowers came in (and our guardian angel!)

How I was able to do it, I do not know, but I somehow held back all bodily eliminations for two hours, while we (she) ate breakfast, got dressed, read books, and played with dollies. And then our angel for the day, Hubby's sister-in-law who lives nearby, arrived to drive Cavan to daycare. Whew. Back to join Hubby in bed (and bath) for seven more hours. And then I got to stay in bed while Hubby went to pick up Cavan and entertain her for a couple hours that evening, before my shift arrived again for the baby's bedtime routine. Then another night of dehydrated misery, but at least the vomiting subsided.

I hope we never again have to experience tumultuous, simultaneous illnesses while our kids are young. And I hope Cavan doesn't end up getting this bug—there would be nothing sadder than watching her survive that misery. Keep your fingers crossed for us!

How does the Easter Bunny come to your house?

As Cavan is napping today, I decided to stuff her Easter basket. I have been prepping her for the Easter Bunny all week, telling her that when she wakes up on Sunday, the first thing we have to check is to see if the bunny came, leaving her a basket of treats. Sorta like Christmas: leave a plate of carrots and celery on the coffee table and when she comes up in the morning, the veggies will be eaten and in their place, her basket. She is excited.

Cavan's Easter basket contains a coloring book with stickers, a bag of balloons (she loves balloons), a bottle of bubbles, a package of zinnia seeds, and 12 iridescent eggs filled with her favorite treat—M-n-M's! I didn't want to go overboard with presents, just goodies.

I am sitting right across the coffee table from Hubby while I'm stuffing the basket. He even suggests the seeds, since Cavan loves helping me in the garden. Good call! After I am done filling all the eggs with candy and stuffing the basket, I turn the finished product to Hubby and say, "here it is!"

First he responds, "where is the stuffed animal?" I thought about that while I was at the store, but I wanted to get her little treats that she would actively use, not just another cheap stuffed animal to add to the ten thousand we already have. Second thing he says, "Why did you stuff the basket now?" Huhhh??!!  He then proceeds to tell me that in his childhood, he and his siblings would leave the empty baskets out on Easter eve and they would know the bunny came because on Easter the baskets would be filled. And finally he tells me, "I guess we'll start the tradition next year."

So, as you can imagine, I'm a bit irritated by these responses after I'm the one that took the time and effort to shop for the goodies and then try to make them special for Cavan's Easter. What's wrong with the way I was doing the Easter prep? How is that less of a "tradition?" Won't it be obvious that the Easter Bunny came if there was no Easter basket one day and it suddenly appears the next morning? And why did you watch me fill and decorate the basket for a half hour before telling me that you wanted to leave it empty tonight? I think that leaving empty baskets out, like X-mas stockings, is a really cute idea, but I don't enjoy the dismantling of my excitement in the process. Communication failure.

So here's my question? What are your Easter Bunny rituals?

Mommy's tired and my brain is broken

Mommy's tired. Pregnancy is wearing me out—thank god for spring break but I wish it was another week long. I am definitely looking forward to the end of the school year, and being a SAHM is sounding more lovely by the minute.

My brain is broken. I was organizing my 17,000 photos on my new iMac this week, and the upgraded iPhoto includes facial recognition. But you have to confirm and/or label a lot of the photos initially before the software works consistently. And I have lost the ability to recall names. Of people I know well enough to have photos of them. A serious case of baby brain.

Welp, hope you enjoyed this riveting post, but that's all my limited attention span can focus on today.

Diaper bags revisited

Current diaper bag.
Fantastic, durable construction, as you can see.

After last month's post on the oh-so-fashionable diaper bag, I decided to do a little research into a modern purse-like baby carry-all. First, here's a picture of my current bag (luckily, with Cavan potty-trained, I haven't had to carry it recently). Notice the completely ripped and frayed seam from carrying the damn thing by the handle. Seriously, if you can't make a bag to withstand the weight of its contents when carried by the handle, don't charge me $70 for the bag (stupid piece of poo!) As we all know, I am cheap, and I didn't want to spend another wad of cash for another diaper bag, but I really don't think this one will survive another child.

Searching on Amazon, here is what I found for the price I'm willing to part with. If  $70 buys a piece of poo messenger-style bag, maybe $150 will get me something that will actually live through two years of abuse without completely disintegrating. Timi and Leslie bags seem pretty fashionable, cost the right price, and boast high customer ratings. Here are the choices (see photos at the bottom of page).

The Annette. Five stars. Comes in pewter, black or red. (Leaning toward black, but the red could be cool too.) This is the front runner.

The Hannah. Four starts. Comes in pewter or black. Nice hardware details. BUT, the few negative reviews of the bag suggest the seams easily tear. I could take my chances based on the bulk of the 5-star ratings, or avoid this choice due to my major complaint with my current bag.

The Marilyn II. Five stars. Definitely black, as far as the color choices. It has a shinier look about it  and seems to be more structured than the other two, which are a bit "floppier" in style and fabric. I'm not sure I like the two pseudo pocket clip details on the front...hmmm.

Any votes from my readers? I know ya'll are experts in diaper bags. OR, do you have a brand/bag that you love or hate. Let me know! I'm in the market.

The Annette

The Hannah

The Marilyn II

Reader challenge—I need to make dinner out of THIS!

The contents of my fridge are forcing me to go to the grocery store (well, maybe it can wait till tomorrow). Here is a detailed list (I challenge all my readers to turn these ingredients into a dinner!)

In no particular order, though most of these items can fit on the double doors of the fridge, it that gives you any hints about their menu viability.

Minced garlic, salsa, pickles, taco sauce, olives, grape jelly, raspberry jam, ground ginger, vermouth, Kraft parmeasan cheese, mustard (multiple varieties), ketchup, relish, ranch dressing, vinegrette dressing, lemon juice, whole milk, Bud Light, broccoli, lettuce, carrots, diced walnuts, mayo, pedialyte, limes, bloody mary mix, feta cheese, cream cheese, probiotic vitamins.

Our freezer contains the following: fish sticks, peas, brats (family pack), various herbs, pedialyte popsicles, shrimp, pie crusts, butter, bread, frozen fruit chunks.

Needless to say, these are slim pickins. But likely, the grocery store will not happen today. Here's why.

I hate grocery shopping. Even before lugging a kid along (and this, lately, makes it down-right unbearable—if you've ever had to contain a two-year-old to a cart for hours, you know why). It's a major boring time drain. I always get cold in the freezer section. Inevitably, I choose the slowest possible checkout line, behind the woman who is trying to use expired coupons and pay with her piggy bank. Bags break, even though our A&P insists that they don't have to double bad due to the 25lb strength of their plastic. And then the $450 of groceries (if it's not a "big" shop, why bother) have to be lugged up the stairs to our kitchen. And put away before the dog eats the meat.

But since we have joined Sam's Club, Hubby does a lot of the shopping (the warehouse is on his way home from work.) How ideal, you may say. It's definitely a plus, but I still hate grocery shopping day. This means that Hubby will be an extra two hours late to get home (and since he is the chef and we likely don't have any "quick" meals for me to prepare—remember what our fridge looks like prior to grocery shopping—it will be two hours later to eat dinner). And there are always items forgotten. No blame assigned, it just happens.

So other than the annoyance, why won't the shopping happen today (or maybe not even tomorrow?) Sam's Club is 45 minutes away and we're on spring break, so neither Hubby nor myself will be headed down there this week (especially not when gas is up to $4.12/gallon). We could do A&P, but it is so much more expensive compared to Sam's. Maybe we could make due with pasta in the cupboard and freezer selections?? We'll see.

So this is the totally boring post about one of my least favorite chores. Don't get me started on putting the laundry away—another impossible task. BUT, just so you know, I love vacuuming. Good thing too, because beagles shed like crazy (and that is a whole 'nother post.)

The town playground

Cavan is obsessed with the playground! Her favorite is the slide—not only the downward whoosh, but she loves the climb up the steps and/or ladder to get to the top! And she is also learning to love the swings. Luckily, she gets two, half-hour sessions of playground time every day at school. And since we have had a couple of randomly summer-like days so far this year, I have treated her with trips to the town park.

Before I get into the experience at the town park, you have to understand a little bit about my town. We are about a hour and a half outside of NYC, so our town is made up of a lot of wonderful, down-to-earth people. I love where I live and love our neighbors, but unfortunately there is a significant population of delinquents. The kind that drive 90-miles an hour down our street just to get a little bit of air over the top of the hill. The kind that smash beer bottles on the pavement just for kicks. The kind that leave used used condoms and even more disgusting, used tampons on the beach at our lake. But more on how this relates to the playground in a minute. Back to our town.

Wait, there is no "town." It is relatively rural and is equipped with residences, but without any real town center or gathering place. No real shops, other than the liquor store. No real restaurants, except Panda Garden chinese takeout and the deli. Our town hot-spots include the post office, the library, and Darcy's Dance studio. There are no sidewalks in our town. No bike paths. But we do have a town park. And Cavan is now the perfect age to take advantage of this.

So a couple weeks ago, on a beautiful 68-degree day, Cavan and I go to the park after school. The playground equipment is awesome and new. But since it was the first warm day of the season, it was packed. My initial thought is great, Cavan will have other kids she can run around with. But after about five minutes, I was longing for one of those huge, cedar home playsets.

I am a new mom to the playground scene, but as a responsible parent, I assumed there would be some innate playground ettiquitte followed by all kids and moms. While some parents were actively watching their children—mostly the parents of children under five—most of the parents were either absent or off in the corner smoking. (Gross, seriously, smoking. At a playground. Get the patch people and respect my lungs.) These parents seemed to belong to the 15 or so delinquent seven to nine-year-olds that were running around, cursing like sailors (or I assume, their well-educated parents), and firing ping-pong-sized rubber balls at each other with some sort of pump-action toy gun.

Other than the obvious, I had some serious issues with this.

1) There is a fenced in area with the playground equipment, but their are multiple "open spaces," either sports fields, courts or just plain old grass, that these renegade boys could abuse. Why did they have to verbally and physically assault each other—along with all the other innocent kids—in the playground?

2) There seemed to be some other nice families there trying to enjoy the afternoon with their own children. Why didn't any of them say anything to these (insert expletive here) children and parents? (Why didn't you, you're probably thinking. Well, the teacher in me couldn't help myself so I cornered the pack-leader and told him to "watch his mouth young man." To which he promptly responded "whatever." This kid will probably find out who I am and where I live and with the assistance of his father, come to egg my house.)

3) Not only were these kids beaning each other with rubber bullets, they were tagging innocent kids as well (they had such great aim). Every time I ball came in my general direction, wanted to hurl it outside the fence. But here's why I did not. Since these kids were produced by cream-of-the-crop genes, I had no desire to argue sense with the obese, nicotine-fiend (and god knows what else) ignoramus that would probably try to assault me (and then burn down my house) for disturbing his kids' game.

So Cavan and I left (after successfully avoiding any flying-object injuries). And Hubby and I promptly decided to invest in our personal giant playset.

We've been discussing it for weeks but on the way home last night, we just happened to pass the grand opening of Eastern Jungle Gyms. It was a Cavan wonderland! Twenty different playsets of multiple sizes and accessories set up and ready for the test drive! Cavan never wanted to leave! The twenty-foot tall slide was her favorite, but that came on the $6000 set, so, sorry baby, we're not getting that one. But we did walk out having purchased the "Dream" set. It includes a slide, a rock wall, a jacob's ladder, a picnic table, a look-out tower and pirate's wheel, two sling swings, a double horse swing, a gymnastics hanging bar, and a climbing ramp. And it will be delivered and installed for free, thanks to the grand opening sale, on May 2! Unfortunately, Cavan doesn't quite get the idea of "ordering" something, and she cried all the way home because we didn't bring the swing set with us!

This was a bit of an extravagant purchase for us, but she and baby will get years of fun out of it. And the neighbor kids too. (Mary, Caden, Makayla, Brandon, and Sawyer, come over any time!) Thank God for great neighbors—we'll have our playground fun right here in the comfort of my backyard and leave the hoodlums to destroy themselves.

This is our set, minus the monkey bars, and with a bit of a
different configuration of the accessories.

The pregnancy wardrobe

The pregnancy wardrobe is my current pet peeve (though thankfully I know I will never have to deal with it ever again after this baby is born).

When I was pregnant with Cavan, I really only had to outfit myself with one season's worth of fat clothes. I got pregnant at the end of January barely gained any weight between then and April. I was able to make my regular work clothes "work" with the use of extra long tank tops or a belly-band to hide my unfastened pant's buttons. By May, it was warm, so by the time I had grown out of my regular clothes, I was able to buy a week's supply of dresses, two pairs of khaki capris, and one pair of maternity jeans, a handful of "nice" t-shirts, and I was good to go all summer. I did have to go back to work in September, but the dresses were still appropriate and still conveniently housed my ever-expanding belly. I invested in one larger pair of jeans for that last month, but other than that, felt comfortable and relatively fashionable for the entire gestation.

Enter Baby #2: I got pregnant in late October. And thanks to my previously stretched out body, started to blimp out immediately. By Christmas, I was already in my maternity jeans, but still trying to make my work pants last. In January, I bought a pair of bigger, regular pants, and alternated between these and my one pair maternity jeans every day. And I was still able to hide the beginning belly under my normal sweaters—thank goodness I tend to like my shirts long to start with. By February, I bit the bullet and bought a maternity wardrobe. Here's where it gets annoying.

Since I'm planning this to be my last baby, I did not and still do not want to invest in a new maternity ensemble. All of my previous pregnancy clothes are for summer, and while I look forward to getting more mileage out of them when it warms up, I also do not want to spend hundreds more dollars for clothing I will be wearing for a handful of months. 


I am pretty frugal to start with and purchases really have to make sense before I can justify opening my wallet. So I went to Kohls instead of Pea in the Pod. (Though PeaPod clothes are awesome and in-style, $175 for a pair of maternity jeans is just not my idea of practical.) For about $275 total I got two pairs of light weight cargo pants (one black, one khaki), a pair of black work pants, a tank top, six knit shirts of varying sleeve length, and three sweaters—all maternity sizes. Pretty good deal.


But, here's the catch. Though I have no complaints with the shirts—they look good a little big and more form fitting, the pants are driving me nuts. I bought them at nearly four months—leaving 5 months of growing to go—so I had to buy them a little big if I wanted them to last. So here I am at 24 weeks, suffering through wearing "dumpy" pants everyday because if I bought them to fit as designed, they'd only last me a month. I know in about four weeks, they'll look great (well, as good as elastic pants can possibly look on an enlarged hiney), but because I'm working on a budget, I have to actively push my vanity aside every morning as I venture in to teach 50 high school students everyday. Students whose weekly manicures probably cost more than my pants, let alone their designer attire.

However, here is my secret plan. I think I may maintain the dumpy pants look, even after bambino/a is born. (And in my soon-to-be sleep-deprived state, I actually won't care what I look like).  And then maybe someone will nominate me for What Not To Wear (this could be you!) Trust me. I'd have no problem throwing out my closet, especially after wearing the same four pants and six shirts every week for five months, but I can put on the act for the show to give Stacy and Clinton a challenge:)

Cavan's car-ride antics

Since Cavan and I's daily routine involves me driving her to school on my way to work, and more often than not, picking her up on my way home, I thought I'd share some of her car antics. Some are really cute, some result in meltdowns, and one Mommy is not-so-fond of (and I'll blame Daddy for this!)

1) Cavan and her hand obsessions. Many moons ago when we first switched to a forward-facing carseat, Cavan always wanted to hold my hand while we were in the car. And since I was the one doing the driving, this was impossible. My explanation: "Mommy needs two hands on the wheel when we are in the car, but at red lights, we can hold hands." This seemed to satisfy her at the time and has now turned more into a game. At a red light, I'll hold her hand, but sometimes I'll try to take it away before it turns green. She hangs on for dear life and shouts "it's still red!" But the moment it turns green, she not only lets go, but practically throws my hand back at me. And similarly, because of my previous explanation, if she sees me driving with only one hand, she'll scream, "Mommy two hands on the wheel!" The only real problem with this is that I have to put my second hand where she can see it, which is usually right on top, and pretty uncomfortable...until I can distract her with something else.

2) Swiper's here! HIDE! Cavan rarely watches Dora the Explorer (one of my least favorite cartoons), but she is obsessed with Swiper (for those of you who are not fluent in Nick Jr. animation, he is the pesky fox that tries to "swipe" whatever Dora is carrying in that episode.) When Cavan yells HIDE, I have to put my right hand by the side of my face to conceal myself from the imaginary fox. Mind you, this is while I am driving and seems to be the exception to the "two hands on the wheel" rule. She will then announce that Swiper is either sleeping or "not here anymore" so I can put my hand down. Sometimes he even hides in the trees or "other people's cars" depending on the scenery we are passing at the time.

3) Bumps vs. rumbles. As most of us have experienced, this winter and the subsequent salt took a toll on the roads, littering our route to school with potholes. One day coming home—a day with no nap and no car-ride sippy—a bump sent her into a hysterical meltdown. Since then, she reserves a special kind of anxiety for bumps. Solution/explanation: "Cavan, if it just makes noise, it is called a rumble and rumbles are fun!" It took a bit of convincing, but she eventually bought into this idea. But what about those pesky bumps? If avoiding them at all costs isn't an option, a warning that a bump is coming will usually avert a frenzy. But sometimes Mommy forgets, and then, bring on the symphony.

4) Road names. Cavan loves knowing which road we are driving on at any given time and with startling accuracy for a two-year-old, can tell you the name of the street we're on between our house and school. Even the roads with cooky, Indian-inspired names. (Though it would be really cute to tell you all the names of the streets she is able to identify and pronounce, doing so would be a road-map...ha, pun...to our home address, and all the internet pretators that read this blog would then know how to find and kidnap us. Dramatic, probably, but Hubby is concerned about maintaining complete anonymity, so I guess I'll comply to avoid an argument later. That is, if he even reads this entry, and this is a test! I'll keep you posted on whether or not he passes!) Anyway, now Cavan just has to learn to read so I don't have to name every cross street on every car trip anywhere we go.

5) Spitting. Here's the antic that Daddy takes full blame for (and yes, he is deserving of the Mommy-look-of-death for this one). Apparently Cavan was crying in the car after Daddy picked her up from school one day. To get her to laugh, he started blowing raspberries at her, which turned into a sloppy spitting game, as Cavan immediately imitated. As Cavan is sitting on my lap later in the evening, she spits right in my face, to her delight and my...well, delight is not how I would describe it. "No spittle-bugs," I say, but she continues until she earns a time out, after which I learn about Daddy's little game. Only Daddies think spitting is both funny AND a good game to teach your child. Now Cavan knows the rule: "Mommy doesn't like spitting, but Daddy likes spitting. I can only spit in Daddy's car!" (And only when Mommy is not a passenger!)

Thank you Hubby! You're awesome!

This weekend Hubby's favorite televised sporting event was on—the Masters golf tournament. BUT, Hubby knew how much I wanted the veggie garden area landscaped so I can finally plant my seedlings outside, so instead of watching golf all day, he worked his butt off! We hired a backhoe/bulldozer and eight hours later a rock wall was built, the land was grated, and stumps were removed, ready for raised beds to be built. (For details and more pictures, including a super-cute shot of Cavan in overalls, check out The Almost-Green Thumb.) Thank you Hubby, thank you! You're the best!

But this weekend is not the only reason I feel like bragging about Hubby today.  While I'm on the topic, let me tell you a couple other reasons why I couldn't live without him  (in no particular order).

1) He is a do-it-all handy man. Since Hubby is a sculptor, he knows his way around tools. And since he helped build our house, he learned all sorts of other imperative skills for any homeowner (since owning your own home means always having to fix something). If something needs repair, it will be done. Like our shower head and faucets, for example. They drip. It started as a minor, every so often plop of water, but after nearly three years of living in this house, it now rains perpetually. (Upon investigation, apparently our plumber cut some corners and actually installed our custom shower fixtures incorrectly.) So Hubby is fixing this tomorrow with fresh plumbing supplies from our trip to Home Depot this weekend. Better than dropping a hundred bucks on calling out a (different) plumber!

2) Hubby is a hands-on Daddy. We are equal parents. And Daddy is just as comfortable entertaining and caring for Cavan all day as I am. Never afraid to change a diaper or give a bath or comfort a boo boo or tolerate a tantrum. This is an amazing characteristic because I can get a break when I need one. Mommy doesn't need to be "on" all the time, which is helpful now that I'm five-months pregnant. And it will be even more helpful after the baby is born! During August, Cavan belongs to Daddy, so I can try to get some sleep and tend to the baby and just transition into the two-child life. But getting back to the present, let me just introduce my luxurious weekends, thanks to Hubby. On Saturdays and Sundays, Cavan knows to call for Daddy in the morning. And he gets up with her, makes coffee, watches "The Cat and the Hat Knows A Lot About That" and "Miss Spider," and wakes me up an hour or so later for homemade breakfast. A weekend doesn't start any better than sleeping in (with the bed to myself!)

3) And speaking of cooking, Hubby is the household chef. As I have mentioned before, we don't go out to eat anymore (and rarely get takeout). Hubby cooks every night. When it's warm, he does a lot of grilling (oooh, nothing tastes as good as when blackened on a charcoal grill!), but other staples are shrimp stir fry, pork tenderloin, tacos, pasta with homemade sauce, or broiled fish in a white wine sauce. I am really spoiled. I can cook (and when I do, its damn tasty), but I don't enjoy it. Hubby is an artist and that transfers to creating in the kitchen as well. 

So those are just a couple of reasons why I love Hubby! Thank you for all your hard work and for taking care of Cavan and I!

Tickle-time trauma!

This evening, Cavan and I go to her room for our normal routine of tickle-time and hide-and-go-seek before bed. As I am taking off Cavan's clothes and putting on her diaper, I am giving into her insatiable desire, "Munch on me Mommy!" And she was extra-ticklish tonight. The giggles were to-die-for as I ate up her riblets and cheeks and neck and toes! The blissful and innocent joys of parenthood. Munch munch munch...until she was laughing so hard that she choked on her spit. And one second later covering me, her, and the carpet in puke!

There is nothing, I mean absolutely nothing, on the planet as foul as baby/toddler puke. It is all I can do from gagging and vomiting myself from the assaulting smell. But I hold it together because that would a) be even worse to clean up and b) would scare/upset Cavan even more. Yes, more joys of parenthood.

I wish I could say that this is the first time this has happened, but it's becoming more and more obvious that Cavan has an easily-excitable upchuck reflex. Though this is the first time I've tickled the puke out of her, Hubby has been puked on after throwing/flipping her in the air. And on multiple occasions she has run around our open floor plan at full speed until abruptly stopping, emptying the depths of her intestines, looking momentarily horrified, then continuing her cross-country training around our kitchen island. At least she doesn't lose her good spirit along with her dinner.

So after stripping both Cavan and myself out of our clothes and bathing us both with baby wipes, and blotting/scrubbing chunks of pasta and milk-mucus out of the carpet, giggle girl immediately requests hide-and-seek. Whew! But how can I turn down the hysterical experience of watching Cavan innocently hide in plain sight? Somehow I am able to endure the lingering aroma of acid-curdled dairy for the pure joy of parenthood.

Welcome second trimester (it's about time you got here!)

Most women hail the onset of the second trimester because it marks the end of morning sickness and begins the golden weeks of pregnancy. Food tastes good again (largely because you are not experiencing the flavors going both down and up), you can stay awake for several hours without wanting to trade valuable organs or your life savings for a 20-minute nap, and ambition to “do things” emerges due to your sudden energy surge. While I am in my 23^rd week of pregnancy, and therefore, about 10 weeks into my second trimester, I feel as my golden moments have just arrived (and am scared they will be fleeting).

Let’s backtrack. With Cavan, I had morning sickness, but at week 13 on the dot, it dissipated. I remember the moment as if it was yesterday. One day I’m lying in bed in nauseous agony, and the next day I asked Hubby to take me to McDonalds (for my first real food in three months. Believe it or not, a human can live on crackers and bananas, but it is not a pleasant experience). We went through the drive-thru and ate in the parking lot. The Big Mac, large Dr. Pepper and fries were miracle drugs, and upon digestion, I was a new woman.

The rest of my pregnancy was easy, if not downright pleasurable. I relished in the new experience of growing my very own baby. Even thought the first flutters of kicks turned into jabs on my bladder, each was treasured. And how cute is that “popped” belly button. All the aches and pains and discomforts that I had been warned about from other women—gosh, what complainers. My feet swelled a little, but no big deal. Sure I had to pee all the time, but that was more of a nuisance than a discomfort. And why did other moms moan about heartburn? I felt great and was truly blessed with a perfect pregnancy experience until labor arrived. And 25 hours later, Cavan was finally born, but that is another story for another day.

But with this baby, the gestation has really taken its toll. SIXTEEN grueling weeks of morning sickness—the puking-multiple-times-a-day kind. My sweet Cavan would hear me wretching and come and pet me on the back while my head was in the toilet. And oh the heartburn, from the onset. So agonizing that I have to take Zantac both morning and night to keep it, just barely, under control. Not to mention paralyzing sciatica spasms, which thank goodness have been eased by visits to a pregnancy-trained chiropractor. And arriving home from work with just enough energy to lift Cavan into bed with me, turn on Wonder Pets and pass out until Hubby got home to take over toddler duty. And speaking of Hubby, I know he was ready to castrate himself with a kitchen knife to avoid knocking me up again. Apparently, my mood swung a bit toward the cranky side, with Hubby as the recipient. But I’m not intending to bitch (nor be one). Really I’m not. I’m intending to rejoice because this week I have emerged from the fog!

Maybe it was the fact that I wore to school today sneakers and jeans instead of work clothes, but I noticed a little bounce, a little pep, a little spring to my step. Maybe it is the onset of spring, but I’m feeling chipper and optimistic again enjoying the moments of my day rather than praying for night to arrive so I could finally get back in bed.  Whatever the reason, I’m going to live it up, because third trimester begins in less than a month, so my window of comfort is already closing, and come August, check Ebay—there is a strong likelihood that I’ll be auctioning one of my lungs for a couple hours of shut-eye.

Another reason to stay at home

Quick rant: I just paid $75.03 to fill up my gas tank (at $4.05/gallon). YIKES. I have a normal car—a 2004 Volvo wagon. It gets on average 21 miles per gallon. This is not great, but its all wheel drive and I cannot afford to upgrade to a more economical vehicle. But 75 bucks for gas?! That will last me a week and a half at best?! When I only drive to work and back! Highway robbery (LOL, pun! I crack myself up. But I only laugh to keep from screaming obscenities at our oh-so-competent government leaders. ARG!) This is yet another excellent reason to transition to stay-at-home mommy!

Extravagant purchases

Before becoming a parent (and a homeowner), Hubby and I were more extravagant in our purchases. In particular, we ate out a lot—several times a week, in fact. Sushi Mike's was our favorite, followed by a organic burrito joint, Tomatillo, a local Italian restaurant, Sam's, and an authentic Irish pub, Rory Dolan's. But this habit not only got expensive; it became a chore.

Going to a restaurant with a baby or toddler presents several challenges, but that is a post for another day. The next time we take Cavan out to eat with us, I'm sure I'll have an anecdote, so I'll save my commentary until then. (Be prepared to wait a while—we almost never dine out anymore). The point I'm going with today is the extravagant purchases that have replaced this once relaxing and social pastime.

The first is gardening. I am like a lush with a box of wine when it comes to flowers. To hear more about this addiction, check out my other blog, The Almost Green Thumb. But beside the outdoor gardening aspect, I am becoming more and more lavish with indoor flower arrangements. We have a  perfect spot in our living room for floral displays—a shelf in front of a window, in perfect view to enjoy without obstructing any line of sight—and $10 per week for rotating arrangements seems like only a small price to pay to make me smile. I was experimenting this week with contrasting textures and am currently in love with my combo of white hydrangeas and yellow spiked dahlias.

The second is fancy soaps. I have never been one to spend extra money on sumptuous suds, but it has been a growing interest over the last year. For no particular occasions, my mom surprises me with delicious soaps from Bath and Body Works. And for holidays Hubby's mom gives me a Crabtree and Evelyn avocado oil soap or body wash.  And Hubby really treated me with a gift box of L'Occitane verbena soaps and lotions for Christmas. Another of my must-haves is Mrs. Meyer's Clean Day lavender hand soap, and I randomly found a brand called Tusca Mia (olive oil and sage scent) on a check-out end-cap at Walmart. I bought three bottles at the time but haven't been able to find it since.

I could just continue to wash my hands with the same Dawn that does my dishes (it's worked for years, so why not?) But a nice soap is a pleasure that I feel no guilt over anymore. I barely get out of the house, except to go to work and run errands, so why not have a little aromatherapy vacation during the 50 times I wash my hands per day. $3.99 per bottle is the cost of a smile—an extravagance well worth it.

"Mommy, look at these little rocks"

A quick story for the second post of the day. When we got home, Cavan and I took our beagle for a walk down to the lake across the street from our house, and Cavan stopped to pick up some acorns on the side of the path. I'm not really paying attention until she says, "Mommy, look at these little rocks." Just as I look over she grabs a handful of deer poop! (If you haven't seen deer poop, it looks like a pile of little black pebbles.) I made her walk with her hands out in front of her all the way home, saying don't touch anything, we don't want to get deer poopy on anything else. As she is walking up the hill, I put my hand on her back to help her keep her balance. She says to me, "Don't touch me Mommy, I don't want to get poopy on you!"

Mommy makes the breast medicine

I arrived to work today haggard and bleary-eyed, partially due to an exhausting weekend, partially due to pregnancy in general, but mostly due to tending a coughing child in the wee and early hours this morning. Cavan started coughing around 2 a.m. but I was not concerned. This is usually a sign that she has thrown off all her covers and she is cold. Replacing the warmth usually quells the cough in minutes, but not last night. Of course, the humidifier that lives in her room all winter was just put away this weekend and rummaging through the closet to get it out last night wasn't a viable option. Next trick, honey. Cavan loves honey and even in her half-conscious state, I was able to get her to open her mouth for the honey bear before propping her up on a big pillow...around 4 a.m. After Hubby got up at six, and myself lying in bed completely awake listening to her hacking, I decide to bring her to sleep with me. She instantly woke up when I brought her in bed (a HUGE treat that only happens when she is sick), but soon she settled down and fell asleep on my propped up chest. The result: two and a half hours of solid sleep without a single ugh-ugh-ugh. I guess Mommy is sometimes the best medicine.

As I was telling one of my co-workers about my morning, he retorted that his kids are always sick, which got me thinking, thankfully, Cavan is almost never sick! Other than pink eye, she has been on antibiotics only twice in her life, which seems pretty impressive for a 2 1/2 year old who has been in daycare since she was four months old. Even Hubby and myself have been sick as dogs this winter, but she never caught what we had (praise for religious hand-washing)!

Here's my theory—Mommy really does make the "breast" medicine! I breast-fed Cavan for 11 and 1/2 months (I had to quit before my 12-month goal due to tonsilitis and super-strong antibiotics). She was not sick for her entire first year of infancy. She has had only one serious fever, ironically it was only a couple weeks after the abrupt end of the good milk. She got her first ear-infection early this winter. But other than a minor coughs or runny noses here or there, she is, knock on wood, the healthiest child I know.

According to an MSNBC report, along with hearing similar information in numerous parenting magazines, "there are hundreds of deaths and many more costly illnesses each year from health problems that breast-feeding may help prevent, include stomach viruses, ear infections, asthma, juvenile diabetes, obesity, sudden infant death syndrome, and even childhood leukemia." This and my own experience has proven that breast milk is magic.

So many working women stop breast feeding when they return to work because pumping is such a hassle, particularly in many work places that don't provide the privacy required for 20-minutes sessions  of "whoosh, whoosh, whoosh" music. At the school that I taught at after Cavan was born, I was able to commadere a private bathroom with an outlet, but it happened to be within the teacher's lounge. I don't know how many times other bathroom patrons would knock-on the door and I had to say "it's gonna be a while." So embarrassing. It's not so humiliating to say that you are pumping, though one day I did have to explain to one of my 60-year-old male colleagues what that "whoosh" sound was. But, I really did not want my co-workers to imagine me taking a 20-minute dump in the teacher's lounge bathroom! And God-forbid if I didn't push the lock on the door completely and someone walked in and saw my stretched out utters! (EEK, shiver!)

I suffered through that routine for five months before summer break finally gave me pumping respite. And I'm so happy I did because there is nothing more excruciating to a mother than yearning for her sick child to feel better (not to mention all the messy hassles sickness brings). While I won't have to pump as much, since for this upcoming baby I'll be a stay-at-homer, I wouldn't trade breast feeding for the world. My kids are worth it (and I would prefer to avoid all-nighters with sick children for years to come.)

So this is what clean feels like!

Prompted by a client visit to our house (Hubby is a sculptor and his clients were coming to view their commission-in-progress), we spend the weekend doing a top-to-bottom deep-deep clean. This is not to imply that we live in filth every other day of the year (clutter is not the same as filth, right?), but this weekend was tackling not only normal tasks, like vacuuming and mopping, but nit-picky cleaning, like washing fingerprint smudges off the walls. Whew. I'm exhausted, but damn, get the photo crew in here to document the occasion! Our living space is ready for a Better Homes and Gardens!

There is nothing like house guests to inspire a clean house. I have no problem with close friends and neighbors just stopping by and seeing the real state of affairs at any given moment in time, but clients or dinner guests deserve to be fooled into thinking Cavan's toys live on their shelves and our counter tops are a minimalist collection of candle sticks and flower vases (rather than piles of papers, hair clips, half-drunk sippy cups, and dishes from...wait, when did we have tacos?)

But this is a dual-income family (income insufficient for a house-keeper, even on a bi-weekly basis), and as such, the last thing that we want to do when we get home from a long day is clean. We want to eat, play with Cavan, and go to bed (after we do our paper grading and lesson planning). Ironically, we are out of the house all day, so you would expect it would be easier than a stay-at-home family to keep the house immaculate. How much damage can you really do when you are only active in your house during four to six waking hours? Come over, and I'll show you.

And this epidemic, as Hubby claims it is, is a point of contention in our household. Apparently slobbery is contagious (apparently, out of the two of us, I was the original carrier of this virus). But in reality, I do enjoy a clean household, but out of the four to six waking hours at home, I have a hard time prioritizing scrubbing the stuck-on off the stove when Cavan wants me to read a book or play tea party. So, I am looking forward to July and thereafter, when my job as 100% Mommy will allow time to stay tidy. Because I know all you stay-at-home moms have immaculate households, so I'm ready and willing to join the ranks. (By the way, how many times do ya'll put away your kids' toys in the course of the day before you just give up? Can someone fill me in on the rules of all things domestic so I can make sure I'm doing it right!)

Throw away your watch

I used to be a punctual person; it was a major pet peeve of mine to be late to an engagement. And even worse were other people that were late to meet up with me. (How thoughtless of they to keep me waiting—don't they have a watch?!) But gone are the days of of my critical nature when it comes to time—I now find it almost impossible to be somewhere at any specific hour. A watch is a useless contraption in my life now—I am no longer in control of time. That control lies almost exclusively with my two year old (and will be even more regulated by Bambino/a when he or she arrives).

But the reasons why babies and toddlers make you late are two different animals all together. The baby will manage to have blowout poos, up his back most likely, just as you put him in the car seat on the way to a party. (The time drain on cleaning up this disaster is self-explanatory. If you have no clue what this entails, I do not want to ruin the surprise for you.) The toddler will tell you just as you've locked up the house that she has to go pee-pee on the potty. (Wait, those aren't completely different animals.) She may or may not be able to hold it until you unlock the door, take off her winter coat, run to the bathroom, put on the potty seat, and pull down her pants. In fact, more often then not, you will be changing multiple layers of clothes because as you are lifting her onto the toilet seat the pee-pee decides to not only spray her pants, but yours as well—but only on days that you really had to be somewhere on time. And then come the days when your newly-independent toddler is convinced that she can put on her coat by herself—and zip it too. You indulge her briefly, but the tantrum that follows will probably result in her flopping violently on the floor, bumping her head.

Now, not only have you  unsuccessfully secured the coat, but you are rushing to the freezer for a boo-boo bunny and hoping that your hysterical child doesn't hyperventilate and throw up on you. And this is never on a day of casual errands, but probably on the morning that you have an important doctor's appointment at an office with a tight-ass secretary regulating appointment times. ("I'm sorry, but if you're more than 15 minutes late, you must reschedule, that is our office policy," she says pointing to the sign on the sliding glass window separating she and you. You are thinking, "that better be freakin' bullet-proof glass, lady, because not only did I drive 35 minutes to get her but my pants are still damp with pee-pee, so cut me a little slack before you go back to filing your three-inch nails.)

But as often as we mothers can blame our children for our tardiness, yesterday my half-hour delay to work was entirely my fault. As I am locking up the house, my arms layered with graded papers, Cavan and I's breakfast bananas, my cell phone and my coffee, my key slips out of the lock and falls onto the doormat. Well, in a hurry, I lean over to pick it up, spilling the entire contents of my iced coffee onto my coat and khakis. Dummy. Back into the house we go, to change into new pants (not clean pants—I have only a limited number of elastic-waisted maternity slacks—but at least they're not soaking wet), find a new coat, wash off my keys and phone, and then repeat the leaving process again, sans coffee. I felt like Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. I definitely felt like moving to Australia.

The moral of the story. Don't rush. And be considerate of late friends, if you know they have young children at home.

Cavan's friendly monster

When Cavan goes to bed at night and when she wakes up in the morning, she carries on conversations with her stuffed animals and dollies. But this morning she introduced me to her "friendly monster."

I walked into her room and commented on how she had put her socks on her favorite dolly, Betty. She then told me that she also put socks on her monster. Here's how the dialogue thereafter went:

Mommy: "Oh, where is your monster?"

Cavan: "Over there by the chair."

M: "Is he a nice monster?"

C: "Yes, he's friendly. He loves me and gives me hugs."

M: "That's so nice. What does he look like."

C: "He's red."

M: "Is he any other colors too?"

C: "Yes, pink. He has pink dots."

M: "Where are his dots, on his back or his belly?"

C: "On his back. And he's fuzzy."

M: "Oh good."

C: "And his feet are cold on the floor, so he's gonna wear my socks."

M: "Good girl, that's so nice to share your socks with your monster."

C: "Shh Mommy. Monster's sleeping."

I'm glad she has monster friends because it allows me to take a 15-minute vacation (I mean shower.)