A Quarter Pounder Plus Ten

It's amazing the kind of compliments you get when you give birth to a big baby. "What a woman" is what I have heard the most. It reminds me of men and fishing. I'm telling you, this baby is a keeper.

There were two other babies in the nursery at the same time with my baby and they both weighed six pounds and some ounces. The pediatrician told the nurses not to put my baby next to those other babies because he might eat one of them! Ha!

One of the nurses told me she had to do my son's footprints twice because his feet were so big they went off the end of the card.

My husband was a ten pound baby. I have to say I'm secretly a little proud that I outdid my mother-in-law on something, which has never happened before and is unlikely to ever happen again.

Which is probably why in the beginning if someone said anything about my ten pound baby, I would correct them by saying, "Ten pounds AND FOUR OUNCES. That's a whole 'nother stick of butter."

Speaking of sticks of butter, my best friend made a cookie costume for my baby for Halloween. He looked so yummy.

This costume was appropriate, don't you think (since cookies [and babies] go with milk)?

My Dear Lil' Sister,

There are little clues in every room of my house that remind me of how much you must love me.

The front room is the place where Baby spends most of his time, swaddled in the soft yellow afghan you crocheted for him.

Every morning in the kitchen I spread sweet honey from the jar you boiled for me after it sat crystallized in the cupboard for way too long.

When Halloween was over, I hated to take down the happy paper bats that fluttered over the dining room table all those weeks...I probably would have never gotten around to hanging them.

The DVD player still sits unconnected in the back room, but I love that you tried. I still haven't tried.

My favorite movie (the one you watched with me in the family room the night before I gave birth) still sits on top of the entertainment center. I should put it away now.

In the laundry room, the pink bottle of baby detergent you brought pours out fresh-smelling blessings every day.

The guest bedroom where you slept seems so empty now.

Every night Baby slumbers in my room in the cradle you helped me put together, the one our father made for me when I was still in the womb myself.

When I see the material you ironed (I'm so sorry you got burned!) hanging under my daughter's bed, I will always remember how determined you were to help me finish my long overdue unfinished projects.

In the boys' room, there's a pumpkin bucket that is empty because Baby did not gather candy when he went trick-or-treating (but next year he will). How did you know my children needed trick-or-treating buckets? You are perfect for me, Lil' Sister.

Whenever I see the fingernail polish in the bathroom I will remember how you carefully painted each of my fingers and toes and gently rubbed my swollen, tired feet. And the hair conditioner you gifted smells like mint, but also like care if care had a smell.

I am daily reminded of how grateful I am for you when I see the hair on each child's head, lovingly trimmed and softly strengthened by your talented hands.

As you battled your own first trimester fatigue (and sickness that lasts much longer than morning), you helped me prepare for the end of my last trimester, most likely the last one I will ever have.

You made the end special, which made a special beginning for all of us.

Thank you.

Love,
The Biggest Sister

Improving Home: The Girls' Room

I may have a disorder.

Or a problem with disorder.

I may have a disorder which causes me to live in disorder because I have to do things in my own order (which should probably be called my own disorder because often the order in which I do things does not correspond with my priorities).

I may have a disorder disorder. Is this possible?

If none of that made sense, do not worry. I was just trying to explain why I have not posted for more than a month: because I have not yet finished the girls' room.

There are so many posts in between that should have been written (for example, I could tell you about how I birthed a ten and a quarter pound baby), but I could not post them or even write them until the girls' room was finished.

And it wasn't. It isn't.

Yet.

There's always tomorrow...

Quoting the Cute: Page Ten

Six-year-old (after I told her not to throw dirt in her hair): "But it's pixie dust & if it doesn't get on me then I can't fly!" (Does this mean her imagination hasn't been destroyed by all of the hours she has spent watching "Jake & the Neverland Pirates" online?)

Three-year-old: All of her "-ore" words are "-oy" words instead. So, we go to the stoy & clean up the floy.

Two-year-old: "I want awful." (This is how he asks for a waffle every morning...not that we have waffles every morning.)

Six-year-old (when I asked her how she liked the pool party): "I kept getting stuck in the world pool." (Except replace the "s" sound in "stuck" with a "th," because she's lost a top front tooth.)

Three-year-old (while she shakes and shivers): "I'm not COLD!"

Two-year-old: "Yay!"