The Magic of Christmas

Before you have children, people tell you life is more fun with kids. Four thousand poopy diapers into the process, you begin to wonder if you were sold a bill of goods. And then Christmas comes along. There are few things more fun in life than a preschooler on Christmas day who has been asking every day since the first snow, "Is it Christmas yet?". Well, today the answer was finally yes.

On Christmas Eve, we read the Christmas Story. It went fairly well. I am amazed at how attentive my small children were through the accounts of Christ's birth in both the new and old worlds.


After that, we started a new tradition. We decided to give the girls new pajamas on Christmas Eve, thus serving the two fold purpose of 1) Giving them something to open that they can use immediately instead of handing them a toy and then saying "Go to bed. You can play with it tomorrow". And, 2)Giving them something to wear that won't look ratty and gross in the Christmas morning pictures. That's the background behind this lively video:



I don't believe there has ever been a human being so excited about a pair of clearance pajamas ever in the history of the world. Jane cleverly used the distraction to steal Emily's sippy, thus resulting in an off-camera fight.

Christmas morning was almost more excitement than Emily could stand. As soon as she saw her castle she exclaimed, "Oh! I wished for a castle!". Perhaps she watches too many princess movies.

Jane just went with the flow - enjoying her own gifts and carefully choosing her moments to help herself to Emily's gifts. And then helping those gifts into her mouth.

It was a wonderful Christmas. Someday I will look back and miss Christmas with small children. And then I will rejoice in the knowledge that my poopy diaper days are over.

The Big One

Yesterday, Jane turned 1. Everyone keeps telling me how they can't believe how quickly time flew. I always just smile and say "yeah, where does that time go?", but really I'm thinking "Seriously, it's only been a year? It feels like it's been 20 years". But that's one of those things you don't really say in polite conversation.

Here's how Jane looked a year ago:

And here's how she looks now:

It's amazing to see how much she has changed. A year ago she was just a screaming lump. Now she is a happy, mischievous girl that laughs all the time and calls anything with a face "baby". We are so blessed to have her in our lives.

Jane has the dubious honor of having quadrupled her birth weight by 1 year of age. As much as my arms and neck and legs ache from hauling her around, I am much happier with her entering this flu season at 23 pounds than I was at her entering last season at 5 pounds, 12 ounces.

We kept Jane's first birthday pretty low-key. We ate her favorites for dinner - hot dogs and mac and cheese. You don't have to eat vegetables on your birthday.

This was followed by presents

And cake

And then a very necessary bath.

Yay for Jane!
Yay for birthdays!
Yay for whole milk, honey and forward facing carseats!
How time flies!

O Christmas Tree

For future reference: December 5th is a bit late to get a fresh Christmas tree. But through perseverance and a bit of luck, Christmas was saved by the firefighter's Christmas tree sale which had just started a couple days earlier. Not only did we get a beautiful tree, the proceeds went to a local charity.

Last night for Family Home Evening, we decorated our tree and I successfully resisted the desire to spread out some of Emily's ornament clusters.

While we decorated, Jane practiced her stair climbing skills. She still doesn't walk, or crawl with her tummy off the ground but she has figured out the stairs, thus making her a danger to herself which is, I believe, exactly what she intended.
Sorry about the picture. I think I had the camera on Bigfoot Capture mode.

Talent Show

Last night, Chris taught a Family Home Evening lesson on talents (and despite being assigned well in advance, Jane totally fell through on the treat). We talked about magnifying our talents and then about talents that each member of our family possesses.

What is Daddy's talent?

Emily: Hanging out at work.

What is Jane's talent?

Emily: The puking up talent.


Apparently Emily's talent is keen observation skills.

Saturday is a Special Day

Is it bad luck, Karma, or just proof that God has a sense of humor? Well, whatever it is, the end result was that yesterday was my second Super Saturday as enrichment counselor (or whatever they're calling it nowadays). And this year I had no enrichment leader to help out.

For those of you that have no idea what Super Saturday is, I will give you the rundown. It is a crafting day that usually happens in the fall where all the ladies make Christmas gifts for their friends and family. It is a HUGE deal and a great deal of pressure for the poor sap who is in charge. That would be me. And as I did last year, I will refer you to my extreme dislike of crafting.

I would have been dead in the water without a great deal of help from the other ladies in the Relief Society Presidency as well as a few volunteers from the ward. I think it actually went as smoothly as a Super Saturday run by a craft-hater can possibly go.

I won't go into too much detail, but here are the crafts for which I took direct responsibility:

A family home evening assignment board (Yeah, I know the handwriting on the hang tags looks like a six year old boy wrote it. It's the best I can do):

These super cute framed thingies (thanks mom for having the inspiration for these hanging over your sink and for giving me a quote to use):

The obligatory Christmas ornament (I decided to go rustic this year. Even I am not totally sure I like it):

There were seven other projects conceived by more talented and experienced crafters. But this is my blog, so I won't let them outshine my efforts here.

Most people were very appreciative and I only had a few hecklers, whiners and complainers. I've already started my "Next Year..." list. Like, "Next year we are only doing six crafts. Max." But secretly I'm hoping that next year, someone else will be in charge. Like one of the hecklers from this year. And I will heckle to my heart's content.

I would be remiss not to mention the bright spot of Super Saturday. We are lucky enough to have a masseuse in our ward. She volunteered to give 15 minute massages to whomever desired one. I got mine at the very end of the crafting madness and it was lovely. It was my first massage and I've decided that massages are like meth - it only takes once to be addicted.

All in all, Super Saturday didn't go as badly as I feared nor as well as I hoped. My opinion hasn't changed - the only good Super Saturday is a dead Super Saturday. And this one is. Finally.

Sugar Sugar

In the days immediately preceding Halloween, nearly a foot of snow fell. That's what happens in Wyoming.

The snowstorm gave us plenty of time to carve pumpkins. You'd think with all that time on our hands we would have had one of those really cool ones of the grim reaper or President Nixon. Not so.

Both the girls were fairies this year. Emily was Tinkerbell and Jane was a very round fairy. I've done some quick calculations and I'm not sure those wings have enough surface area to provide lift to Jane's frame. In Wyoming, fairies wear turtlenecks and, as the evening wears on, usually have to don their coats. This will probably be the last matching year. Next year, Jane will have her own opinion on her costume.

Emily takes the cake for trick-or-treating dedication in the 3 year-old category. I went out with her until her bag got too heavy for her to carry (and I was getting cold) and then Chris took her out until it was too late to politely knock on doors.

Then came the best part: the sorting of the candy. Now, I'm not one of those crazy moms who thinks I have to check my kids' candy for razors and joints. I am targeting peanuts. When Emily eats peanuts, her lips swell, she gets hives and I won't even mention what else happens. I am more fortunate. That means I get Emily's peanut laden candy.

(Yes, that's a Fiber One Bar. We live across the street from a guy who grows organic vegetables and runs marathons. No further explanation necessary.)

Perhaps she should have taken the term "stay at home" literally.

I admit. I am a germaphobe. I have problems with handles on public restroom sinks and doors. I sanitize my hands after touching pens that have been used by a crowd. I get so tense in dirty houses (dirty - not cluttered. There is a difference) that I sometimes take a shower after returning home from such abodes. However, I try to keep my phobias from other people.

Today there was a crack in the facade of sanity. Let me preface this story with the caveat that I very seldom have any sort of altercation with people whom I do not know. There was a boy at the mall play area that was coughing so hard he could barely breathe. I told Emily to stay away from him. But when he grabbed Jane's stroller, I firmly told him "no" and his mom flipped out. Since I don't know her name and she had a nose ring, we will call her Ms. Nose Ring. Here is an abridged version of a very long conversation between her and me:

Ms. Nose Ring: He's touched all the toys here so your kid is going to get sick anyway. You may as well just accept it.

Me: That is incredibly rude of you to bring your child out when he is contagious.

Ms. Nose Ring: I'm a stay at home mom and I needed to get out of the house.

Me: I'm a stay at home mom too and I would like to be able to get my kids out without them getting sick.

Ms. Nose Ring: I've been a stay-at-home mom longer than you have, Sweetie.

Me: confused silence.

So, it pretty much went on like this until I was pretty sure Ms. Nose Ring was going to punch me. That's when Emily got scared and ran over to me and Ms. Nose Ring left. No doubt to go get a tramp stamp. During the altercation, she insulted my mothering skills again and again, but never gave any sort of justification as to why it was okay for her to have a sick kid in the play area.

Germaphobe or not, I know how the flu is spread and I would prefer, if at all possible, that my children not get it. Is that unreasonable? Maybe it is. But at least if I get sick, I won't have snot oozing out my nose ring hole. Because I don't have one. So take that.

Nightmare on My Street

I recall a horror story from my childhood that involved an axe murderer and two little girls. In order to escape the axe murderer, the girls hid in a closet that locked from the inside. Even as a kid, I thought that was lame. I knew that wicked stepmothers liked to lock princesses in closets, but why on earth would anyone have a closet that locks from the inside?

Well, recently I discovered a very good reason. Here is a picture taken from the inside of Emily's closet:

Notice the button lock.

It's there because Emily has discovered the secrets behind every kind of childproof doorknob cover on the market and because the second we walk out of her room for nap or bedtime, she immediately runs to her closet and begins the fashion show. 14 ensembles later, she will fall asleep and we will return at the end of nap to find her in an outfit of her own choosing and her room a disaster worthy of being declared a Superfund site.

We tried everything. Punishment, bribing and putting blackout blinds in her room so she couldn't find her way to her closet. Nothing worked. So today, for the sake of saving what little sanity I have left, I switched out her closet doorknob with one that locks from the inside. It worked like a charm. I do, however, question the effectiveness of this lock against axe murderers.

One for the Jane Fans

Two posts in two days! I am on a roll!

Trip and Fall

Finally! We got a nice, appropriately Fall day. So what did we do with it? We went to Harvest Farms in Wellington and Autmned until we were almost ready to Fall. (I ought to be arrested for that).

First, the girls got to pet goats, sheep and various other assorted farm animals. Jane was a bit unsure of the goats, who seemed especially interested in her shoes.

Then, we went through a toddler-sized corn maze. Maybe next year we'll tackle the biggie one. The girls played in corn, which is way more fun than sand... until we realized that small pieces of dried corn = irresistible choking hazard for babies. Don't worry. We got it out of her mouth just in time.

Chris then got so angry that he snapped and started shooting produce at innocent bystanders.
(It's a pumpkin cannon - sorry I lost track of his ammunition)

And then we topped off the trip with some kettle corn and a couple of farm fresh pumpkins.

In other news: baby Jane is army crawling now. Great news for her. Bad news for Emily's toys.

First Snow

Today we got our first snow (I'll try not to complain that it's only October 8th). Here's how the first snow (and pretty much every snow) affects our household.

Upon waking, Emily declares, "Mom! It snowed. I'm going to play and make snow angels and build a snowman!". She is too excited to eat more than a few bites of her breakfast before she demands I find her snowsuit and boots. Jane insists upon being held while I do all this. Finally, realizing that would be impossible, I set her down on a blanket with some toys and turn my attention to Emily.

Twenty minutes later, Emily is dressed for the snow. I'm still not wearing shoes. I race to my room to put my shoes on before Emily ventures out alone in the snow, then race downstairs to find that Jane has thieved a peppermint patty.
I wipe up Jane and put Emily's mittens on. Finally, after nearly half an hour of preparation, Emily is ready to go out.

She's not out for a full minute before she takes off the mittens.

Then she takes a few laps around the backyard.

And sits down in the snow.

And then starts crying because her hands are cold. Five minutes after she ventures out, she comes in for hot chocolate. And then she realizes that she's hungry because she hardly ate any breakfast.

Needless to say, I'm not too crazy about the snow.

Yet Another Broken Resolution of Motherhood

I always swore I would tell my children the truth. As a matter of fact (don't judge me) Emily already knows that Santa is pretend and that the Easter bunny (who could honestly think that was possible anyway) is faker than fake. But I have realized that sometimes you have to tell your children lies to prevent them from doing things that will be physically or emotionally damaging to themselves. I have already divulged the lie that I told Emily to keep her from cutting her hair, but a couple weeks ago I did it again. I lied to my trusting child.

First of all, you have to understand the desperation that comes with having a 3 year old that has had no success with potty training. For nine months, I have had two children in diapers. I have come to feel that my life exists only in tiny snippets between diaper changes. I knew Emily could understand the concepts. She would dig in her heels and argue with me about why she shouldn't use the toilet. She didn't just yell "no" and cry, she actually used well formed arguments in complete sentences. I was ready to try anything. I took all the advice I could get. We tried every type of reward under the sun. I tried setting her on the toilet every half hour. I even tried punishment. Nothing worked.

And that's when we made our preschool visit to get her on the waiting list. I didn't know a kid could get so excited about school, but after the visit, Emily was ready to sell her soul to go to preschool. Enter the big lie. I told her that they wouldn't accept her unless she was potty trained. I know that is true with some schools, but not this one. I needed a carrot to dangle and I was desperate. That was on a Thursday. The following Sunday, Emily discovered the will to succeed. No effort on my part. Now I am in trouble. Emily is quickly making her way towards being completely potty trained and yet the preschool waiting list refuses to budge. I am beginning to sense a relapse. Oh what a tangled web we weave!

Everybody Poops

I recently recalled a conversation I had with Chris years ago. It was in the golden age before children. We were spending time with some friends who possessed several small children. The wife (let's call her Jan) had just been shouting at the top of her lungs, "Who pooped? I can smell poop". And then, after finding the culprit, she became angry and announced to the pooper, "I don't have any diapers for you. You'll just have to wear some of your brother's".

Not having spent much time around small children, I was horrified. I told Chris I never wanted to have children because it would make me lose my dignity. Chris reassured me, saying, "Jan and you are very different people. You would never be like her in a million years. I'm sure she wasn't dignified before she had children. You, on the other hand, ooze dignity. She is one kind of mom and you will be another kind of mom. You can still keep your identity and be a mother".

Well, Chris, several years later I can tell you that you were unqualifiedly WRONG! I have not a shred of dignity to my name. I lost most of it during Emily's infant months - dealing with public blowouts, trying to nurse in a crowd and going everywhere with a baby that screamed at the top of her lungs all the time. I can actually mark the moment when the last bit of dignity left me. As I puked into a jar in front of a roomful of people during my labor with Jane, I realized it was gone for good. All my dreams of being a sophisticated woman who is known for her grace and clever remarks in intelligent company went into that jar on that cold December morning.

So what triggered that distant memory of my dignified days? While engaged in a conversation with my hairstylist (whom I knew before either she or I were mothers) I realized we had been talking for at least fifteen minutes about our children's poop. Neither of us were embarrassed and the conversation was interesting to both of us. What had happened to those days in college when she would cut my hair and we would discuss world events and concerts and rumors of which new restaurants were coming to town? I'll tell you what happened. This happened:



And then this happened:

At least I got something in return for my dignity.

Someday My Prince Will Come

Okay, so I'm not usually one to be like, "Here, blogfans, watch this video of my kid that you will in no way find as amusing as I do. As a matter of fact, you'll probably find it a bit grating". But this was so funny that I had to share it. After lunch, Emily ran for her blanket and pillow (before I could wipe the beef-a-roni off her face) and announced to me, "Mommy, all my dreams are going to come true". That's when I grabbed the camera, hoping she would repeat it. She didn't, but this is what went down.

For those of you that don't own a 3 year old and require a translation, let me know.

Lacking in Horse Sense

I couldn't believe it when I saw what Emily had been up to. For once, the silence didn't mean that she was destroying our very way of life. She had never done a puzzle before, so I was ready to burst with pride when I saw she had completed four puzzles without any assistance, the most complex of which contained 12 pieces.



"My daughter is a genius!", I said to myself and immediately began thinking about how I would compose my letter to Mensa. I thought carefully about my stating my case as to why they should let a 3 year-old join.

And then Emily pointed at this puzzle:



and said, "Look mommy! It's a fish". In my mind, I heard the sound of ripping paper as I destroyed my imaginary letter.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

It's one of those things that every kid does at one time, but we all secretly hope our children never will. I had hoped my turn would never come, but but my number was up yesterday. I was getting ready to walk out the door for a Relief Society presidency meeting when I noticed the telltale signs. The bathroom light was on. Emily was upstairs alone. And it all went downhill from there. As I ran upstairs, Emily came into full view - scissors in hand.

I only noticed a few strands of hair on her shirt. Not so bad. Until I looked in the drawer and saw a pile of silky blond hair. The majority had been taken out of the front and side of her hair. I could have just kept it up in a ponytail until it grew out, but I didn't want to mess around with it, so I decided to make a fresh start.





Should I have told Emily that all princesses have beautiful long hair and that she couldn't be a princess since she cut her hair? Maybe not. But I did. Because with Emily it doesn't work to gently reinforce principles and because she's running out of hair to cut.

That's one more rite of passage down. We've already covered several calls to poison control, ripping wallpaper off her walls, picking up baby sister by the head, writing on baby sister's face and cutting holes in a brand new pair of pants. We've still got a broken bone, stitches, getting lost at an amusement park and eating a bug to go. For now I'm going to pretend those things won't happen. Because right now my ability to ignore the inevitable is the only thing stopping me from purchasing a large cage and shutting Emily in until she goes to kindergarten.

Speaking With an Accent

Here is a quick summary of how I ended up with one child for four days:

Frontier Days sucks.

So we stayed for the requisite parade on the first Saturday:


And the Thunderbirds on Wednesday:

But after the static air show (during which Emily attempted to hijack a helicopter):

We escaped the crowds of Frontier Days and went to Rock Springs. We had a lovely time and it was great to visit all the old stomping grounds. But when we returned to Cheyenne, Emily stayed in Rock Springs for four glorious days.

What did I do with my four days of having one baby and no preschooler? I painted! Most of the painting was very boring. My house was born with flat paint on the walls. Not good for kids. So Chris and I painted over a good portion of the downstairs with satin paint in the exact same shade. It looks nice and clean, but still very beige and boring.

Here's what's not boring: I painted my first accent wall:

I am still getting used to it, but I think I like it. I need something to break it up, though. Maybe a "Bless this Mess" plaque. Chris suggested painting a yellow steamboat on either side. Thus pointing out (after I had already finished painting) that I had selected Wyoming Brown for my accent wall. I still like it.

A Helping Hand

Today we went to pick up Jane's very first prosthesis. We call it her "helper hand". Here's a picture of her wearing it:


Her first prosthesis is passive, which means that it is there to give her a sense of having a hand, rather than to necessarily function as a working hand. It is flexible enough that we can bend the thumb a bit to place toys into the hand, but it is rigid enough that she can put weight on it and abuse it.

We decided to start young at the suggestion of Jane's doctor who told us that if we start now, she is more likely to adopt a hand into her self image and will have a head start when she is older and ready to try the cool myoelectric hands. It will also help her to use her body in a more bilateral way. She is not a full time wearer now - our current goal is an hour and a half a day. This should give her time to get used to the arm while still giving her plenty of time to use her little arm as is.

She will use the passive hand until about 18 months. At that point she will get a mechanical hand that opens and closes and is operated by shoulder movement. Then, at some point, it will be on to the myoelectric hands.

So far, Jane seems to not hate the hand and has discovered that it is useful for bashing the sound buttons in her exersaucer.

And for those of you that are wondering about the bright colors on the arm: I am the guilty party. I wanted bright colors 1) because flesh colored plastic looks creepy on a baby and 2) because I was hoping the bright colors would catch her eye and make her want to play with it more. If you think it looks weird then, well, I'm rubber and you're glue.

So there you have it. One step down a long road that will hopefully lead to a well adjusted and happy girl. With or without a prosthesis.

A Bit of Genealogy...

When you live in Wyoming, you frequently get the question, "How did you end up here?", as if something must have gone awry in your life that caused you to be here. The short answer is that I love it here and I choose to be here. But that's just why I stay here, not how I "ended up" here. Here is part of the story of how I ended up here:

My mother's family has been in Wyoming since her great-great-grandfather came to Evanston in 1879. His name was Henry Code. Henry was born in England and came to the states as a young man to join his sister in Salt Lake City. Although not a member of the church, he bought passage with a wagon train of Mormon Pioneers. He later joined the church, married,moved to Evanston, and had a large family. Henry was a gun and locksmith and repaired sewing machines. Henry built the first model steam engine in the Salt Lake Valley. Henry had no hands. He lost both of them in a childhood accident caused by careless use of gunpowder.

I have lately been given a copy of his obituary. Here is the text (from the January 21, 1911 edition of Evanston's local paper):

After an illness of two weeks, Henry Code, the pioneer gun and locksmith of North Evanston succumbed to pneumonia and jaundice early yesterday morning.

The deceased was born Aug. 21, 1836 at Lincolnshire, England, and came to America when 22 years of age. He removed in Utah with the pioneers in 1862, and came to Evanston in 1879, having resided here continuously since that time. He was married to Myranda Whipple at Salt Lake in 1873, and to this union several children were born. His wife passed away several years ago and his daughter, Mrs. Fred Lowbaker died last week. He is survived by a brother in California and a sister in Salt Lake. Also by two sons, David Burton and Charles Code and two Daughters, Mrs. Wm. Titmus and Mrs. Wm. Barnes of this city. Another daughter, Mrs. R.D. Freeman, resides in Idaho.

Mr. Code was an exceptionally clever man, and though a cripple, with both arms cut off at the elbows, followed the vocation of gun and locksmith in Evanston, raised a large family and does not owe anyone a cent.

This is certainly a creditable record. Mr. Code at all times held the respect of this community as an honorable, upright citizen.

Although I take exception to the word "cripple", I was extremely pleased to finally be able to read the obituary, along with a history of Henry Code, written by his friend. Henry is one of my heroes and one of the people I most look forward to meeting in the hereafter. Henry didn't know that someday he would have a great-great-great-great-granddaughter who was missing a hand and looked to him as an example, but he couldn't have conducted himself any better if he would have known.

Henry made his own prostheses and I am sure he will be marveling from the spirit world at all the implements available to Jane. I am also sure that along with her family on Earth cheering her on, the loudest cheer of all will be coming from Jane's great-great-great-great-grandfather, who knows Jane's struggles and her potential better than any of us.

Yet another addition to the fleet

So the ol' Subaru Legacy wasn't cutting it anymore. It isn't that I don't love it. It's just that it seemed to be closing in on me whenever we went anywhere but the park or the grocery store. 2 kids plus 2 giant carseats plus luggage plus a choice selection of stuffed animals plus the travel DVD player plus the accompanying DVD collection make for a pretty uncomfortable ride in a midsize sedan. I know lots of people do it and I commend them. I can't. However, because of the Governor's wage freeze, a new car was nowhere in sight.

But thanks to my parents and their new car purchase, we became the proud owners of their Ford Expedition.

(this is technically not it, but it looks just like this and I don't want to go out in the rain and take a picture.)

This is my first biggie size car. I must say that it is very nice to be able to put my giant stroller in the back and still have room for groceries and/or luggage. When I drive it down the highway, I feel like one of those guys that sits in a box on the back of an elephant and looks down on all the common folk. I am also proud that I now own a car that Al Gore might call excessive and wasteful. Anything that fits into that category is a good move in my opinion.

Now my only problem is that I will have a very hard time talking Chris into anything smaller once the Governor decides that it's cool to give people promotions again. Maybe he'll be convinced when I inflict the first door ding on someone else's car in the parking lot... or the second... or the third. Did I mention it's a bit of a tight fit in parking spaces? Well, it is. In the meantime, I will just enjoy riding my elephant box down the highway. And consider yourself forewarned not to park next to me.

Out of the Closet

This morning, my trip to the park included an unexpected tutorial from a 10 year-old boy on Yo-Gi-Oh cards. He went on and on about how this card had so many destruction points and that card had so many life force points (not sure if I have this right, it was indeed a very involved discussion - at least on his part). He was very excited about entering in a Yo-Gi-Oh tournament. In short, he was a very geeky kid. The kind that gets made fun of on the playground. But he didn't seem to care he was a geek. And when he noticed Jane's arm, he asked the standard questions. After I offered my standard explanation, he said, "Oh! It makes her special. We all have things that make us special".

On my walk home, I realized how thankful I am for geeks. I can now openly admit what I was too ashamed to say during my childhood years: I am proud to be a geek. I recall in third grade when the teacher held up a misplaced Anne of Avonlea book, I was too embarassed to claim it as mine in front of the whole class. All I wanted was to be cool. By the time high school rolled around, I had embraced my tendencies enough to join the speech team, but still turned down the High School Summer Institute invitation when it arrived my junior year.

But when I entered college I decided to come fully out of the closet and declare my intentions to become an engineer. I was finally proud to be a geek. And when it was time to decide upon a spouse, I knew only a geek would do.

Thank goodness for the geeks on the playground who see differences as special. Thank goodness for the geeks in high school who think that Calculus is cool. And thank goodness for the geeks who design safe cars, systems to deliver clean water to my tap, the glorious internet and artificial hands that open and close when the wearer flexes a tiny muscle.

When I was a kid all I wanted was to be cool. Now that I am a mother, I hope every day that my girls will be geeks.

The Whole Package

He's got the button down plaid shirt, a fleet of calculators at his command, the steel pinky ring and now he'll have a stamp.



Congratulations, Chris for passing your P.E. exam.

And the Answer Is...

A double jogging stroller!


So let me explain why I am so excited. The girls and I love to go on walks. But Emily is not capable of going long distances on her short legs. This has required that I strap 17 pounds of Jane to my chest in the good old Baby Bjorn while pushing Emily in the stroller every time we want to go for a walk. Emily has also loves to go on runs (lately just with Daddy - he's nice enough to watch the girls while I run), but our jogging stroller is a single so that means only Emily got to partake in the joy of running. We selected a model that works well for outdoor walking and then you can lock the wheel to make it a true jogging stroller, thus solving both problems.


So far, we have only taken it for one very windy walk, but I already love it. It was so freeing to just be able to push the stroller without a baby strapped to my chest. Totally worth a miserable week of work!

Pop Quiz

I recently got a week's worth of unexpected work. It was the first time I've worked since Jane was born and needless to say it was a bit stressful trying to draft with a screaming baby on my lap and a three year old throwing tantrums. So I decided to buy myself something I've always wanted with a portion of the proceeds.

Can you guess what I bought? Hint: It has three wheels, is bright yellow and requires three people for it to operate at its optimum capabilities.

It should arrive this weekend at which point I will share pictures and hopefully accolades. I am soooooo excited!

That's Solids, Man... Real Solids

This week Jane hit 6 months. That means she is (slowly) moving out of her colic and spit-up days, starting to eat solids and it also means she will be getting a hand. More on the hand later.

First, food.

We waited for as long as possible to introduce Jane to solids because it was such a screaming horrible mess with Emily. But we had nothing to worry about. Turns out Jane likes to eat. And that's okay when you're six months old because no one makes fun of you for having cellulite on your calves.

According to Jane's physiatrist, six months is also the perfect time to fit a baby with a prosthetic hand. Yes, I was reluctant. But here's what sold me: she said that if we don't do it now, our next window will occur in another 5 or 6 years and that if we do it now, she will accept it as part of her body more easily. But even at that, I would have never signed on for full time use. Jane will wear her hand in half hour periods a few times a day - just to build up her shoulder strength and get her used to having something there.

Her first hand will be what they call "passive". It won't have moving parts and will be made out of hard plastic. I'll post some pictures of it when we get it. At 18 months, she will move to a mechanical hand and a few years after that an electric hand. If at that point she doesn't want to use it, I'm perfectly fine with her not wearing a prosthesis, but this way we keep her options open.

So that is the hand story.

In other news, we finally got some cute pictures of Jane in her blessing dress.




Thanks, Mom for the beautiful dress. Thanks, Chris for the beautiful baby. I take no credit.