Remembering Megan

A dear friend of mine, much more a sister than a friend, passed away a few years ago. Megan coped with manageable health problems much of her life but nothing prepared her friends and family for a diagnosis of lung cancer in 2004. She did not smoke. She was a young, beautiful, funny, vivacious woman. Eight months after the diagnosis she slipped away. I'm not sure any of us have really recovered, least of all her family. Paul and I considered naming Charlotte for Megan (Margaret was her given name), but in the end I needed to look into my baby's eyes without feeling that ache.

When Charlotte was born, her mother Robin sent us a dress that had been Meg's. I tucked it safely in the closet. Perhaps in the spring she'd wear it, when she was bigger. A month later I began shopping for a dress for Charlie to wear at Christmas. I came up empty. I thought it odd, but decided there would be no special outfit for her for the holiday. We had no big parties planned. There was no real need. Then on Christmas Eve I looked at our pretty tree and declared we would take a family photo. But what would Charlotte wear? I'd screwed up. Into her closet I went, and there it was, as if planned, Megan's lovely red and white dress. It fit perfectly. Megan was with us again, sharing our first family Christmas. It felt so right. Coincidence? Maybe....

War Paint

Harry loves to finger paint, draw (read: scribble) and dabble on his chalkboard (slash the air with gigantic pieces of sidewalk chalk, occasionally striking the easel). So yesterday we planted ourselves on the floor, squeezed globs of paint onto huge pieces of paper and tried to channel the Italian masters. Unable to recreate the Sistine Chapel, we instead dipped our feet in paint and trampled over the crisp white sheets. Even Charlotte got a turn, her floppy body assisted by mom. We were a mess. But as I'm quickly discovering, any good play session requires dirt, sand or washable paint. To that end, Harry endured two baths and two changes of clothes. It was before donning his second pair of slacks that Harry was put down for a nap in socks, a tee-shirt and a diaper. He decided to take the easy access to his nappy as a sign that he should strip off the diaper and pee on his bed....which he promptly did.

'All Aboard!'

Harry awoke Christmas morning to the 'whooooo whoooo' of a train whistle. Toddling down the stairs in his jammies, he found his trains rambling around a track atop a train table (courtesy his grandparents). The trains are about all he can think about. They're about all his father can think about. (see some video of said love at the bottom of this post). Mom is still refining her track construction skills. Let's see dad bake a loaf of bread or knit a sweater, OK?


Hoping to keep the train love alive, we took Harry and Charlotte to Washington's Botanical Gardens where they put up a terrific winterland train display that snakes its way through the plants. Harry absolutely LOVED it, not just the trains but the steamy jungle environment, the water features, the green of it all. If there had been food he probably would have moved in. As it is, we discovered our child is not even slightly afraid of crowds. Which terrifies me. He broke away from us a half dozen times, insisting on blazing the trail through the holiday stampede of visitors to DC. Going to have to keep a VERY close eye on this one. Forever. Speaking of which...

...This morning I combed Charlotte's hair into a Mohawk in tribute to her cousin Sarah, who has allegedly fashioned her green locks into a punk do. And she wonders why she can't find a summer job. Teenagers, gotta love 'em. Please remind me in ten years. I plan to have Sarah's mother on speed-dial when Harry turns 13.

On Dasher. On Dancer,...

Harry is safely tucked in bed, visions of sugar plums (or cheese and crackers) dancing in his wee head. The night's finest amusement was making Harry pose with Charlotte in his lap. He seemed both intrigued and honored. The best part, he didn't drop her.

Tomorrow morning he will wake to a train table, already set up with his choo-choos. Not sure who will be more excited. Harry, or mom and dad, who will no longer have to fold their 40-year-old bodies onto the floor to play with their son and his trains.

Merry Christmas all!

Tea for Two

I learned yesterday that Harry has a penchant for tea....or I should say...playing tea party. He's learned this particular social skill from his friend Lucy. Together at their home they sit on the carpet and share empty plastic cups of imaginary liquid, all the while muttering "mmmmm." Last night I gave it a shot, sitting down with him on one of the painfully tiny chairs that accompanies his painfully small table and "poured" us some tea. We don't have a tea set, so mom took out some white porcelain sake cups. Not the best choice, as it turned out, but more on that later.

Harry poured and I took to saying "mmmm." When my cup was "empty" Harry took it to the water spout on the regrigerator door and filled it up with pride. Second helpings. We had a lovely party. When asked who we should invite to the next tea fest, he said "paba," which is Barnes-speak for "grandad." Of course the story ends with Harry smashing his cup, like the Greeks, into the floor. Note to Leef: this is why children's tea sets are made of plastic.

A Christmas Miracle

After months of prodding and pleading, it was the love of a cookie that did the trick. This morning, faced with a butter cookie and the prospect of not having said butter cookie....Harry said "please." Not just once, but over and over until the cookie was planted firmly in his hands. Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

Cookie, Cookie, Cookie Starts with 'C'

Staying home for the holidays is proving lovely after all. We're discovering time we've never had for fun, activities made considerably more fun with kids. Yesterday I baked cookies with Harry. Sure, I did most of the baking, but he was an invaluable helper -- eating raw dough, wielding cookie cutters with abandon, tracking spilled baking soda through the house. Honestly, it was great. My godmother Cynthia came by to show me the way, rolling out some of the sugar cookies and feeding Charlotte a bottle or two. Paul turned on some Christmas carols and by golly...I felt like one of Santa's elves. Harry learned a new word today. You'll never guess which one. He spent part of the morning stationed in front of the oven, pointing at the baking sheets, chanting "ookie, ookie, ookie."

You Give Me Fever....

I don't think Peggy Lee had us in mind when she sang those words. But that's what we had: Fever. Charlotte got toasty Monday night, just as our dinner guests were untucking their napkins and heading home after a lovely holiday meal. I gave Charlie some Tylenol but just to be safe I called the after-hours doc. She was running a temp of 101.5, about one degree over the baby comfort zone and Dr. Atiya sent us off to the emergency room. We were expecting a long wait. We were not disappointed. It was 1 a.m before a doctor saw us. Then, to our surprise, we were admitted. Not to our local hospital, they were full-up. Paul went home to care for Harry, and Charlotte and were poured into an ambulance (they insisted, ugh) and off we went to Fairfax Hospital. That's where we stayed for three nights while she was treated with antibiotics and prodded.

She was in good hands and a fever was a blessing compared to the afflictions of the many very sick children sharing the pediatric floor with us. Our first roommate had a heart murmur. Our second roommate, also a newborn, had a cough like nothing I've ever heard. His mother, uninsured, never took him to a pediatrician and waited until he was really ill to seek care. She was just a teen and brought with her every single annoying toy, which she played to try to drown out his coughing. Suffice to say our last night was a noisy, sleepless one.

If there is a bright side, it's that Charlotte and I got in some nice mother-daughter bonding, sans the boys. I read her a few chapters of "A Christmas Carol," an excellent book, I'd forgotten. And when she slept I worked on her Christmas stocking.

Charlotte was an incredible trooper. We checked out Thursday morning and fled as fast our our feet would carry us. Charlie has been cool as a cucumber ever since, dutifully taking her antibiotics and napping. On to Christmas.....

Bread and Cheese

While I'm no veteran church-goer, I'm not sure my son is supposed to be providing so many laughs on Sunday morning. I don't know where Harry learned to ham it up for the camera (those who knew me as a child may abstain from comment). This Sunday was a special day in church, with all the gifts purchased for our adopted families brought up to the pulpit for a blessing. It was a beautiful show of community outreach, and during a hymn, one of the church elders took out a camera to photograph the display. That's when Harry turned to her and very loudly exclaimed "cheeese!!" expecting that surely she would snap his picture too.


Moments later (I'm sure I was still blushing), we were up taking communion. Our church gives out BIG pieces of the host, chunks of whole wheat loaf. Harry very much enjoyed his first mouthful and as the minister began to move away to bless the next parishioner, Harry looked totally crestfallen. Where was the nice man with the snacks going? So he did what any self-respecting toddler would do...he yelled "more? more?" Some people just can't get enough of the Lord.

We're having a great visit with the grandparents. Today they're going on a quick tour of Alexandria with Harry's godfather Mark, who also doubles as our realtor. We're hoping they invest in a crashpad. Note to grandparents...please make sure it has a nice tub that your daughter-in-law can co-opt.

Deck the Halls

Jim and Eliza (AKA the grandparents) are visiting this weekend. No sooner did they that we plunked the kids into their arms and took off for a Christmas party at Charlotte's Godmother's home -- a festive party laced with ornaments and cocktails, just what the doctor ordered.

Friday night we ventured to Nalls Produce in Springfield to buy a Christmas tree. A bigger adventure for Paul and I than Harry and Charlotte, but a good trial-run for next year. We are so excited about spending our first Christmas at home with the kids. Our home. Our tree. Our best-loved family traditions. And no plane travel for the first time in more than two decades. A lot to celebrate.

The tree, a towering tribute to spruce, is now decorated, and while I was sure Harry would pull down our efforts in minutes, he's been nothing but a little gentleman. I decided to steer clear of the fragile bulbs, and put kid-friendly decorations at the bottom where curious hands can roam. Yesterday he yanked on a few, even caught him with a stack of gifts in his lap...but who can blame him? I'm eager to see what this bleary Santa bought too. Christmas morning should prove a surprise for everyone.

Mother of Three

For those of you keeping score (I'm thinking largely the grandparents), Charlotte had her second-month medical check yesterday. A big to-do with too many shots (four) and some oral meds. Enough to make any kid cranky, which, after a nap, she became. I took her to a luncheon and auction to benefit the Symphony Orchestra League of Alexandria. The ladies (median age 75...no really), just adored her. Until about the time she decided she'd had enough and let forth with shrill crying. I kept trying to explain she was not trying to bid on the crystal decanter.

Minus the out-of-wack spirits, the doc says she's in fine shape. She's doubled her weight since birth, coming in at a healthy 12-pounds, 6 ounces. She's also grown 2 inches. Her head is big, 75th percentile, very Barnes-like. We'll see if it manages to tip the scales like her brother's cabesa dura.

Today, despite the rain, the nanny and I set out on foot for our 10 a.m. Kindermusic class. We had every manner of slicker, umbrella, and stroller cover, but still, we all got damp. The kids love the class. Their teacher is a model of patience. Of course you have to be with a job like that. The best part, is that everyone thinks Harry, Charlotte AND Lucy are my kids. All three. They pity me. And they look particularly confused whenever I pick up Harry and leave Lucy to frolic with the nanny as we dance and spin (hard enough with two kids, trust me on this). Clearly, they must thing I'm a wicked mother who plays favorites. I need to buy a shirt that reads "mother of two."

Celebrating Charlotte

Today marks Charlotte's second month out of the womb. It has gone by so so so fast. So far she is proving herself to be a little marvel, a miracle of good sleeping habits and healthy weight gain. If she only knew the angst her brother put us through (no sleeping anywhere but in mom's arms for three months, and he was a wee-petite skinny-minny. Like any first-time parent, we fretted constantly. At one point he developed brown spots on his scalp. I did some online sleuthing and was positive he had a degenerative neurological disorder. Eliza, my mother-in-law, took one look and prescribed vasoline and a good scrub. And, funny...brown spots were gone in an instant.)

Charlotte, on the other hand, is getting many gold stars for patience and good manners. She's full of smiles and coos and goos and already likes to fly solo in her brother's crib, sub-letting for a short naps when mom is in the shower. Harry loves her, as evidenced by the fact he dances for her, fetches her blanket when he decides she must be cold, and dutifully carries her soiled diapers to the trash can. So three cheers for Charlie. Welcome, welcome baby girl. We are so blessed to have you in our family.

His and Hers

Harry's BFF Lucy is at our house this week, our turn to host the nanny-share. They joined me and Charlotte in the kitchen while I put some Korean-style ribs in the slow-cooker (crockpot for you 70s fans). Hoping to secure a good view of the action, they took seats, his and hers (on their own, mind you), to check it all out. It felt a little like the Iron Chef gallery. I think Charlotte and I scored well.

The kids were born two weeks apart and share a lot of the same features (blond hair, big blue eyes, about the same height), which leads everyone in the park to assume that they're twins. Our poor nanny has gotten so fed up deflecting the question that she now says "yes, twins" just to get some peace.

'What Have You Done With My Best Friend?'

Those were Cathy's words to me the night I attended my first knitting circle at our church. Suffice to say I've never been a big church goer and the idea that I'd spend the evening knitting with the church ladies, well, she was beside herself, mostly laughing, laughing hard...at me. Since that time Paul and I have become big fans of our church, a lovely Episcopalian congregation that worships, among other things, pumpkins, hosting a massive sale to benefit local charities (the pumpkins are trucked in from an Indian tribe in New Mexico each year and virtually the entire congregation gets involved in the sale. This pumpkin freak thinks it is positively awesome).

I first met some of the parish when I wrote a story about the sale many years ago. When it came time for Paul and I to pick a church (baptism looming), I knew exactly where we'd go. A shock to both of us was how much we liked the pastor, the people, even the coffee hour after the service. While we don't attend every Sunday, when we do we really like it. This is the part that makes Cathy, the daughter of a minister, wonder. Really wonder: Who are you and what have you done with my best friend? My brother and sister-in-law, folks very very in touch with God, would probably agree. Heck, maybe I would too.

This morning we visited church for the first time with Charlotte, her debut, as it were. We brought our giant sack of wrapped presents for our adopted family and had a lovely chat with the minister, Sam, and let everyone oooh and ahh at our precious baby. The sermon was particularly good, a discussion about those who strive to know Jesus and those who believe. Paul and I are still working on 'knowing,' but so far it's a good journey.

Day of Rest

We were supposed to walk to Old Town today to watch the Scottish Walk parade. But Harry woke with a slight fever and there was no taking him out in low 30-degree temps. So we spent the day inside, mostly in our PJs. Even sick, he's a delight. He even consented to gobble down his peas and carrots for lunch., with a smile no less.

Quiet Time for Mom

I'm getting the hang of this mother-of-two thing, if slowly. On Wednesday it took me no less than 2 hours to get the kids and me dressed and out the door for a party. As we left I looked over my shoulder -- it looked like a tornado struck: clothes and books and milk bottles and baby detritus everywhere. The house is no better today. I spend Fridays taking care of the kids sans nanny. We managed to make it out of the house without much fuss this morning. Charlotte was suitably bundled in a bunting and harry had on two layers, as did I. He hopped on his trike and off we went to the park. I was so proud. Until Harry rightfully started saying "hands, hands, hands" which were indeed turning bright red from the cold. The water on the slide, had, yes, turned to ice. So back home we went to read books and play until our Friday play group. I have discovered that this is the time I live for on Friday...when we come home from the group and the kids go down for a nap. I have two hours to consider my wonderful life. It's quiet. I can type without toddler hands invading. But what I really want is a nap, but that's just totally out of the question when there's this much to do, a house that's THIS filthy and two super-young kids to mind. Speaking of which...Charlotte is stirring. So off I go to change a diaper.

The Fright Before Christmas

He's big (please reference "Jelly belly"), clad in a shock of red, has so much facial hair his mouth is nearly obscured, and he carries bells...really folks, what's to fancy here? While Santa proved a successful photo op last year, Harry has gotten a wee bit more hip to the realities of this seasonal character. And he was having none of the lap this year. This photo shows exactly how close he was willing to get last night, which in fairness was considerably closer than some of the other children at the party (also smarties). One woman said her child was "hiding" until she gave the all-clear, given that a mere glance of the man in red will cause histrionics. Don't worry Harry, I'll tell Santa what you want for Christmas ....a diamond necklace for mommy.

Harry and Charlotte Get Booked

Harry and Charlotte are officially on the net. If they decide to jack a car in high school or rob a liquor store (every mother's fondest wish), they'll discover their fingerprints are on file with Alexandria's finest. This is not tough love. Nooooo. But the police were on hand at a Christmas Party we attended last night at the offices of McLaughlin-Ryder, the money-management company run by our investment guru and good friend Shawn McLaughlin. We go every year and see a surprising number of friends there, also with children in tow to see Santa., the night's highlight. Shawn is grossly plugged in. We're sure he'll be Governor one day. He's also the chairman of the city's Police Foundation. As such, he asked the cops to join the party (counter-intuitive I know) and give parents the chance to have the kiddies ID-ed: Height, weight, all vital stats, pictures, a video snippet and fingerprints. Short of a proctoscope it was very thorough. God forbid, one of the kids go missing, the police are that much closer to getting them back. Shiver shiver. It's called SafeAssured ID, in case you're interested for your own tyke.

Anyhow, it gave the very kind officers a laugh trying to chart a newborn...let's see....impossibly small little fingers. Her age? Officially "Zero." Weight? Changing every second. Good luck getting her to "say" something into the video camera.. Harry, it should be noted, said "hot dog" for no apparent reason. Charlotte's mug shot? She's wagging her tongue. Good work baby girl, stick it to the man.

Another Kind of Adoption

Today we're focused on adoption. Spit-take anyone? No, lest you think that Paul and I aspire to be the next Brangelina, rest assured we don't plan to expand our brood. What we are doing is adopting a family this Christmas through our congregation, Immanuel Church-on-the-Hill in Alexandria.

Rev. Sam Faeth (pronounced "Faith"...isn't that cool?), yesterday assigned us a family: single mother Karen and her two children - Dujuan, a 2-year-old boy, and Nukyra, a 4-year-old girl. In two weeks we'll bring our wrapped gifts to the church where Sam will bless the presents and they'll be delivered to the hundreds of families that the church sponsors. Rather than giving money or gift certificates, the idea is to provide needy families with presents they can unwrap on Christmas morning. The gifts are given anonymously and the happiness they provide to the kids is incalculable. OK, it also makes me feel really good.

So, I need your help....if you have any great gift ideas for a 4-year-old girl I'd love to know. I think, thanks to Harry, I can figure out the desires of a 2-year-old boy. But a little girl? Any hot toys, books or dolls I should know about? Help!!

Try Try Again

I want to be a perfectionist in all things. And I fail miserably. But when it comes to knitting, I endeavor to get it right (even when it gives me a splitting headache). Charlotte's pink sweater is precious, but the discovery that the sleeves were three-quarter just wouldn't fly. So last night I ripped out the hems and went at it again. Paul napped after a successful and fun Thanksgiving with the kids and out-of-town family...and I worked, knitting needles in hand. But the sweater is perfect now, suitable for at least a few months wear, and I'm happy. So now, on to the Christmas stockings. I plan to make four, one for each of us, in slightly different colors. I'll be lucky if I get one done by the time Santa arrives.




















I have a head cold that insists on lingering and a whopping sinus headache. So church was a miss (must make it there soon to adopt our family for the holiday!). I put Charlotte down for some much-needed tummy time. And while she turned her head a few times, she prefers to slumber on her belly. Cute but misguided, my dear. Harry tries very hard to join her on the mat, if only for the attention. This morning, when that proved unsuccessful, he began swatting her in the head with a sheet of newspaper. At least it wasn't a book.

Giving Thanks

I don't have a huge family. The births of my two children pretty much doubled my small circle of kin, but I am blessed to have a brother, sister-in law and two nephews who live a few states away, in Vermont. They decided to join us for Thanksgiving, their first chance to meet Charlie face-to-face.
During their whirl-wind journey we visited friends, participated in the Del Ray Turkey Trot with both the kids (kudos to Bonnie for joining us, despite West coast jet lag), ate a heaping turkey dinner and shop-shop-shopped at Nordstrom (perhaps Bonnie's favorite place on Planet Earth.).

Paul, and the boys went to the newly-remodeled American History Museum where they battled the crowds, which were conspicuously absent in the shopping malls. Good for Bonnie and me, bad for the, you know, economy. Good luck Mr. Obama.


Harry absolutely relished the attention shown to him by his uncle Doug, who read him stories, and cousin Reid, a strapping 13-year-old who is both brilliant and already wowing all the girls with his dashing good looks (look out Mr. Pitt).














Before the family left, Harry was presented with an awesome early Christmas gift -- a garbage truck with all kinds of movable parts. Funny, too, since Harry's favorite book of late is "I Stink," the story of a NYC garbage truck.

Charlotte took all the visitors in stride, posing for photos in her new sweater, the pink one mom has been knitting recently. Note please that mom welcomes all compliments on the sweater, which is already too small for said baby. She gets points for trying, right? Today, we unravel the sleeves and try again.

I Blame the President Elect

It was decided that we'd follow the time-tested methods suggested in the potty training books: strip toddler down, place potty within view, and wait. So why, not, I thought, just let Harry go bare while we were in the kitchen last night, and see if his potty proved alluring. That's when Paul and I got into a spirited discussion (read: argument) about the President elect and his plans for government contractors. Would he be ditching the lot in favor of government-employed scientists, or is it unnecessary worry. Suffice to say we fell on different sides of this debate, and in the process of making our points, we sort of forgot about Harry, who was happily roaming the kitchen sans diaper. Then I noticed the puddle near my feet. "Is that pee??" I laughed and Paul went to fetch some paper towels.....that's when he spotted the baby-sized pile of, yes, poop right next to the potty chair. While Harry clearly needs more practice (and I need more Mr. Clean), he did provide for gales of laughter. Good try buddy. We're rooting for you. Now where are those diapers?

Five

Ms. Charlotte, proving herself to be an awesome baby, did a five hour stretch in her bassinet last night. Five hours! I'm so proud of her, wasn't even annoyed when she vomited all over the kitchen floor. Who cares. Five hours! She even cooed through her morning bath, no tears. What a girl. Now if I could just find her something to wear for Thanksgiving dinner. My friend Jen, whose daughter is always dressed so adorably, loaned us a few things for the holidays (trying to do my part in with the rotten economy...borrowing not buying...it's so hard to restrain!), but everything is still a bit too big for Charlie, 6-weeks-old as she is. So the credit cards may make an appearance today at "Why Not" or my other Alexandria favorite, "Nina's Closet." Shopping for a precious little girl - Oh the agony.

Simple Pleasures

When I was about Harry's age I was photographed in my highchair, licking angel food cake batter off an electric beater tine. My brother, who is 18 years my senior, is also in the shot, greedily licking at the sweet goop. I made the world's finest chocolate chip cookies last night (not my recipe so I can brag -- secret ingredient? Sea Salt and 24-hour refrigeration, published this year in the NYT), introducing Harry at long last to the simple pleasure of cookies and milk. His reaction was a very pure "mmmmmmmmm." This picture reminds me very much of that day, let's see...38 years ago. All that's missing is uncle Doug. He's coming to visit for Thanksgiving. Maybe we can coerce him into a little cookie batter love fest while he's in town.

Little Man

It was big times for our little man last night. It started with his first shower! Sorry, no pictures since dad was also rinsing off. But there they were, under the waterfall of drops, rubber bath toys scattered at their feet. He liked it, but perhaps not as much as his new potty. He greeted the plastic pot with a big "hi!," inspected it inside and out and then stripped down and gave it a try, complete with reading material. No action so far (could you go with someone snapping pictures?), but we're taking it slow. No pressure Harry!

Sleepless In Alexandria

It occurred to me at 3:30 a.m., in the midst of a groggy feeding, that I used to stay awake at night just to watch Harry sleep. My heart would swell as I'd just gaze at him, my first little miracle. Funny how second miracles aren't quite so scintillating. Beautiful, wonderful, precious and cherished, yes, but last night, as I gazed at Charlotte, preferring for the first time to watch her slumber instead of taking my own opportunity to hit the pillow, I was reminded how second children just don't always score all the perks. In some ways, they're luckier. More seasoned parents make better, calmer parents and in turn, probably turn out more adjusted little ones who, for example, are willing to sleep without being held all the time. As a result, Charlie is a much better infant snoozer than her brother.

I recall the first time Harry threw up -- and I'm talking one of those Linda Blair Exorcist projectile vomit experiences -- I just lost it, sure he'd need to be hospitalized. There were calls to the pediatrician, chapters of speed reading in baby books, great wrending of hands. And of course it was nothing more than gas. Charlotte is already a champion puker and mom and dad are taking it in stride, this time with a lot of patience and laundry detergent on hand. To date she has visited the doc a mere fraction of the times we hauled in her brother. Sometimes it's good to come in second.

Included, some photos from Friday's mothers' group.: Harry picking through the pantry in search of food. And Charlotte in the gentle arms of my friend Holly.

Wide Load

Shortly before Harry was born our friend Bill presented me with this cover from the "New Yorker." At the time I thought it was funny. Now, not so much. Notice, if you will, how you can hardly see the baby peeping out through all the gear. I know that woman. She's me, struggling to decide which stroller, which diaper bag and what bottles to bring on a one hour journey away from the house. Do I have two sizes of diapers? Am I armed with a blanket, a burp cloth, a binky, a cheese stick? A fruit snack? A book? The list is endless, and still I inevitably forget something. Surely I'll have all the kinks worked out by the time my kids head off to Sidwell in the shadow of the Obama girls.

Potty Parity

There is a right way and a wrong way to potty train a toddler. In hindsight, Harry has spent the last few weeks announcing "pod-ee, pod-ee"...but his very tired and distracted parents could only shake their heads and ask each other "what's he saying?" Well tonight's declaration was made with authority and we finally got it. You mean "Potty?" I asked, totally incredulous that my son could even be thinking about potty training since God knows I'm not. Seemingly so relieved that someone finally understood, Harry made a dash for the bathroom...the door locked, he ran to the stairs in what seemed a search of the upstairs loo...So hey, I can be accomodating. I opened the bathroom door, if only to see what this boy would do. Then, in a brilliant act of parenting, i pulled down his pants and, yes, poop filled diaper, and put him onto the seat. Big mistake mom. Yes, curiosity was driving me. But what ensued was so messy that it merits no more digital ink. Many wet wipes and a bath followed. So tonight, I shall read Dr. Sears' chapter on potty training and listen more closely in the future. I think it's going to be a long while before we achive potty magic, but I give him credit for trying. Paul and I, however, get a big, fat "F."

By the Numbers

Everyone asks how it's going. Well, today was a challenge -- frazzled, boobs aching, house a disaster worthy of federal aid, but that's just the way it is with two little kids. If it's not a challenge, either the kids are in a coma or you are. I spent the morning trying to make it just to the afternoon when we headed off to my mothers' group for a play date -- a place where Harry could stuff himself with baked goldfish and I could talk with other moms who just know.

My day, by the numbers:

2 -- hours between feedings
5 -- times I changed a dirty diaper before leaving the house at 11:45 a.m.
2 -- timeouts before finishing my first cup of coffee
0-- finished cups of coffee
6 -- loads of laundry that lay scattered on the basement floor in need of folding
1 -- offer by Paul that we hire the nanny for half days on Friday
1-- number of times I have said that hiring a nanny on Friday would spell my defeat as a mom
3 -- minutes spent in the shower
4 -- times that both children have been crying in concert
4 -- times I've thought about the glass of wine I'll drink with dinner

And still, I can not count the number of blessings, there are just too many.

Special Delivery

It was just wrong that we never got a photo of Dr. Hibshman, the wonderful OB who delivered Charlotte. So at today's appointment I made sure to snap one. Charlotte wore her special mommy-made sweater for the reunion. And was so excited, she yawned for the historic photo.

Shampoo

Charlotte got her first trip to the salon last night. Her hair is lush, but no scissors have touched her locks just yet. No, mom needed a cut and Glynn Jones was happy to share his very luxe LA-style salon (was he?) with an infant. Charlotte got many oohs and ahhs but mom can't say it was the most relaxing hair cut, trying as she was to keep the inches of wet, newly shorn hair off her daughter's face and protect her from the hot blow drier. Frankly, it couldn't have been over fast enough. How ironic that when we arrived home we found a box from Aunty Elaine, filled with trinkets for the baby, including barrettes and hair clips. I can't wait!