Love this.

via Shakesville.

Sweet Tap-Dancing Jesus, this is awesome

Someday, when my children are teenagers and start wondering aloud why I'm so weird all the time, I will show them this video. Because, frankly, once you've seen a musical version of Star Wars starring Donnie and Marie with cameos by Redd Foxx as Obi-Wan, Kris Kristofferson as Han Solo, Paul Lynde(!) as Grand Moff Tarkin, the actual Chewie, C-3PO and R2-D2, and a chorus line of Storm-Troopers and their Fem-Bot counter parts, you understand a helluva lot more about growing up in the late 70s. Srsly. So grab a Fanta, plop down in your beanbag chair, and enjoy ten minutes of jaw-dropping vintage weirdness. Because when *I* was a kid, *this* was prime-time television. (thanks to cwethern for the link!)

Christ, how did it get to be Friday already?

The house is a mess, they're doing road work so the water is turned off all day, the kids are extra cranky, it's like a sauna outside, and all I really wanna do is take a long nap in my air-conditioned bedroom.

Oh, plus I wanna move to France. Via Kevin Drum:

Matt Yglesias translates some questions from Le Bac, France's college admission test/high school leaving exam. These are from the philosophy test:

— Does objectivity in history presuppose the impartiality of the historian?

— Does language betray thought?

— Explicate an excerpt from Schopenhauer’s The World as Will and Representation

— Are there questions that are un-answerable by science?

I mean, I know I'm an elitist liberal pinko commie treehugger, and I know comparisons are odious and all, but honestly: can you IMAGINE such questions on any kind of high school test in the US? 'Cause I sure can't.

Apparently my life is currently incompatible with blogging

It's not like things haven't been happening. The Sprout turned 3 months old, the Hatchling is coming up with new catchphrases and other awesomeness all the time, Mr. Squab and I celebrated our 7th anniversary, I finished rereading the entire Harry Potter series - I mean, the days are filled. Just not so much with the blogging. However, I know I need to post a 3 month letter for the Sprout, and we also have some lovely videos in the hopper, so, um ... stay tuned!! Look! Cute pictures!

Daily Inventory

So far today, the Hatchling has:

1. Pushed one of her friends at playgroup;

2. Thrown sand in the face of another friend;

3. Pitched fits about various trivial things;

4. Peed through her pull-up and all over Mr. Squab's recliner (the fourth such incident in two days).

I think the age of three is trying to kill me, y'all.

Recap of our trip to the grocery store with the baby, aka the first time the Hatchling has been out of the cart the whole time

Me: OK, now, remember, the Sprout has to ride in the cart so you get to walk and help Mama with the groceries. You have to stay with Mama, OK? NO running away, right?

Hatchling: OK, Mama. I helpa get gwocewies.

Me: Right. You help.

Sprout: A-bah.

Me: OK, let's see what we need for fruit ... do you want some bananas? (She's only been asking for them 10 times a day since we ran out.)

Hatchling: Ummmm ... no fanks. Oh, WOOK! Tomayoes!

Me: (grabbing bananas, distracted) Uh-huh, that's right - ok, put it back, Boo. Put it back on the pile.

The Hatchling puts the tomato back on the top of the heap, and it rolls down and falls on the floor.

Hatchling: Uh-oh.

Me: That's ok ... (surreptitiously places it back on the pile) ... Now don't touch anything, OK? Just look. No touch.

Hatchling: Wookit, Mama! Apple! (She holds out a pomegranate.)

Me: No, that's a ... never mind. Put it back. No touching, right? Just LOOK.

Sprout: MAH!

Hatchling: OK, Mama. I get-a bwoccoli. I be riiiiight back.

Me: Honey, don't - you really want broccoli, huh? Well, I guess that's a good thing to want. OK. Look, don't touch all of the - just bring me that one. THAT ONE. (The Hatchling walks towards me with a clump of dripping wet broccoli.) Good, good job. Here, I'll take it.

Hatchling: NO! I PUTTA INDA CART!!

Me: Honey, we have to put a bag on it first.

Hatchling: INDA CART!!!!!!

Me: Yes, we'll PUT it in the cart, but FIRST we have to put a bag on it. See? It's all wet.

Hatchling: All wet!

Me: Thank you. OK, now we need to go down this way for some cereal ...

Hatchling: I WUV ceweal!

Me: I know you -

Hatchling: Oh, WOOK! BAWOONS!

Me: Boo, stay here! We'll look at the balloons later! Honey ... (grabs cereal, parks cart and Sprout in corner) Come on, Boo. You have to stay with me, remember? (Hatchling darts through flag display, I knock it over trying to reach her) Ack! (grabs Hatchling with one hand, picks up flags with the other) Now come on. We'll look at the balloons when we're all done. Let's find the milk, OK?

Hatchling: What's dat?

Me: That's crackers.

Hatchling: Get some?

Me: Uh, yeah, I guess we do need some crackers.

Hatchling: What's dat?

Me: That's gouda. It's a kind of cheese.

Hatchling: I WUV-A CHEESE! Get some?

Me: No, you don't like that kind. Come on, here's the milk. (grabs milk, tries to head back to registers)

Hatchling: What's dat?

Me: Those are lightbulbs, honey. Come on, it's time to go pay for our stuff.

Hatchling: What's dat? What's dat WIGHT DERE, Mama?

Me: (increasingly beleagured) I don't ... those are cookies, honey.

Hatchling: COOOOOKIES. (She says this exactly like Cookie Monster) Getta some coooooookies, Mama? Get some wight DERE? I WUV-A coooooookies.

Sprout: Ga gooo. Ggggoo.

Me: Fine. (grabs cookies, dumps in cart) Now let's GO. Come on! (enticingly) Let's go look at the balloons!!

Hatchling: (brightly) OK! (runs off in the direction of the balloons)

Bag Boy: Wow, she's a real cutie. How old?

Me: (smiling, fatally turning attention away from the Hatchling) She's three, and the little one is two months. (notices Hatchling completely entangled in various balloon strings) Honey ... argh ... (leaves cart and Sprout at register) come here, let's get you untangled ...

Hatchling: I stuck, Mama.

Me: No kidding. OK, now let's go get our groc-

Hatchling: I NEEDA BAWOON!! MY BAWOON, MAMA!! (Grabs four graduation themed balloons tightly in fist.)

Me: Christ. Look, how about we get this one? Just ONE, ok? And put the rest back.

Hatchling: (brightly) OK! (Marches back to cart with her rainbow happy birthday balloon in hand.)

Grocery Clerk: (smirking) One balloon, then?

Me: (sheepishly) Yeah. Thanks.

Hatchling: OK, Mama! Time to go to car. Say bye-bye!

Sprout: geh-GA.
**********************

Final Score: Hatchling = Eleventy Billion, Me = Zero. Once the Sprout can play I am truly doomed.

Happiness is ...

1.) Taking the kids on a nice walk to a fun family event in the beautiful morning weather.

2.) Getting to see a great movie, on opening weekend, in 3D, with your favorite date.

3.) Having friends who are big enough suckers to agree to watch both your 3 year old and your 2 month old while you attend said movie. And who are awesome enough to cope with an infant freak out and live to tell the tale. (It is soooooooo nice having friends with kids the same age as yours.)

4.) Enjoying an impromptu pizza on the patio in the backyard of said friends' house, watching the kids run around wearing each other out while you enjoy a beer.

THAT is a good Saturday.

I write letters

Dear Teacher at the School Where Our Weekly Toddler Class Is Held,

If you see a harried-looking mother trying unsuccessfully to calm an infant who is screaming like her eyes are being stabbed out with red-hot pokers, it is perhaps not the ideal time to strike up a conversation with said mother about how cute the baby's outfit is and you assume it's a girl and what a lovely name! etc., because I DO NOT HAVE THE BRAIN SPACE to engage in social niceties while my baby girl is having a complete and total conniption fit. You absolute moron.

Warmest regards,

The Squab

I have no idea where she gets it

The Hatchling has been especially dramatic lately, because, well, she's three and all, and everything is a big deal, for better or worse. A lot of the dramatics are real, by which I mean that she's really feeling INCREDIBLY HAPPY or INCREDIBLY ANGRY or INCREDIBLY SAD about something, but she's also started to do faux emotions as a kind of game or to get attention. Mostly, her father and I find this annoying and/or tiring, but sometimes it gives me the giggles.

This afternoon, for example, after we'd had a semi-exhausting trip to Target ("Want to get down, Mama? Get outta cart? Get DOWN, Mama? DOWN??? Want treat? I NEEDA treat! I NEEDAWANTA TREAT!!!!!!! etc.) she had finished lunch and it was getting close to naptime.

"Are you ready for naps, Boo?" her father asked.

"Nooooooooo, no, no, no, no." the Hatchling explained.

"Ok, well, pretty soon it's time to go upstairs for naps."

The Hatchling starts spiraling around the living room, faux crying/whimpering. Because she's so tired. And sad. And forlorn. And also tired and sad. Mr. Squab decided to cut his losses and play along.

"Awwwwww, are you so sad? Ready to go night-night?"

The Hatchling looks even more pitiful. "Okay, Daddy."

"Then go give Mama hugs and kisses."

The Hatchling approaches me with a faraway look on her face, embraces me, kisses me, and backs away slowly, sorrowfully. "Good-bye, Mama," she intones, waving her hand as if it takes the last bit of strength she has, finally turning to drift up the staircase. It was like fucking Camille in the final throes of galluping consumption. Christ.

We can only hope that she channels this ability to lucrative ends at some future point. God knows it hasn't worked for me yet.

Random Tidbits for the weekend

1. The Sprout has decided to try on being a fussy baby for the last two days. The mellow thing is SO last week. Apparently. This is not contributing to a positive mental state in her mama, who is finding herself really, really, really looking forward to being a mother of two girls about three years from now.*

2. It is (finally) a GORGEOUS spring day outside, and what's more, I actually got out to enjoy it a little. Went to the plant store and got several nice perennials to put in the front yard, and a truckload of mulch. Was kicked out of the house to go on said errand by Mr. Squab on the theory that a little kid-free time amid flowers and sunshine would perk me up. And he was right, as he so often is.

3. I CANNOT BELIEVE that Adam Lambert didn't win American Idol. WTF, America? Was it the eyeliner that put you off? Or the fact that he has more talent in his manicured pinky than you have in your whole vanilla bourgeois body? Feh.

4. I will soooooo be watching Glee this fall. Cheesy? Hell, yes, but I was a big-time choir kid in high school and it's worth the cheese just for the trip down memory lane.

5. My 20th high school reunion is coming up this summer. How did THAT happen so fast? I keep getting requests to send my address to the organizers so they can send me the invitation. Which I guess I'll do, since I don't want to be anti-social, but y'all: there is NO WAY IN HELL I'm going to my 20th reunion. You don't have to go to high school reunions if you're still having the occasional anxiety dream about high school, right? That's my stand and I'm sticking to it.

6. I have officially decided that I would like to travel back in time to when your average upper-middle class family had a baby nurse to help take care of the kids until they go off to school. Possibly boarding school. Depends on when you ask me. Just thought you'd want to know that it's official.*

* It has been brought to my attention that I've tended, of late, to post updates that indicate a fairly stressed/depressed state of mind. Which, you're damn right I'm stressed! But not at a worrisome level, in part because I have a blog to vent on. So not to fret.

What you can get out and what you can't

Based on my personal experience in the last two days ...

Things you can get out of the sofa fabric:
- Big black streaks of marker (thank you Crayola washable markers)
- Spit up
- Dorito "cheese"

Things that you CANNOT get out of a three-year-old's hair after an outdoor playgroup:
- Dirt
- Tree seeds (those ones that look like rolled oats)
- Tiny pieces of mown grass
- Various seed pods

Seriously. I washed her hair for about 1/2 after we got home, and she still has miscellaneous yard detritus all over. Maybe next time I should scotchgard her ahead of time. It worked with the sofa.

Two Months Old

Dearest Sprout,
Well, you turned two months old on Thursday and I'm just getting to your monthly letter now. I'm guessing this is sort of the pattern with the second kid, and I hope you don't feel lost in the shuffle. Right now a lot of your life is spent getting dragged around to your big sister's activities. At some point you might object to this, but so far you're remarkably accommodating about it. We hoist you in and out of your carseat, in and out of the sling, in and out of the stroller, and you sleep or look around or eat or, pretty rarely, fuss. I am in favor of this demeanor, so please keep it up. Thank you.

This is not to say that you're not coming up with new tricks, however. This month you've added smiles and babbling to your repertoire, both of which are pretty awesome. Daddy is definitely your favorite person to communicate with - he gets the biggest grins and the longest chats - closely followed by your big sister and your other relatives, with me as a veeeerrrrrrry distant last. Which: WTF, kid? What am I, chopped liver? I only GREW you and BORE you and stuff. I mean, don't feel obligated or anything.

I really can't complain, though, because the smiles and coos are pretty adorable even when they're not directed at me. And you seem (knock wood) to have figured out your days and nights, so while we not getting tons of sleep, we are at least getting more than last month, and frankly, I'll take what I can get.

Tomorrow we'll go get you weighed and measured and see how much you've grown since the two-week mark. No telling if you'll be as off the charts as the Hatchling, but seeing as how you're already in size two diapers and 3-6 month clothes I'm pretty sure you'll get the stamp of approval. The nursing is going better too, so we're mostly just using formula for when we're out and about or if I have to leave you with Daddy for a meeting. This is especially nice at night, allowing me to nurse you without the lights on in a semi-conscious state. Mmmmm ... semi-consciousness.

And that's really about it for this month, kiddo. You're doing everything you're supposed to do. Oh, and also: You didn't poop in my mouth this month! Which is awesome. So I think we'll keep you. Now give me some smiles!

love,
Mama

Mother's Day

Oof. It has been quite the week around here. Nothing terribly traumatic, but let's just say the Hatchling has begun to embrace her three-ness with a vengeance. Highlights have included a massive poop-on-the-sofa incident and the spilling of an entire glass of iced tea all over the keyboard of my laptop. (which, incidentally, appears to be relatively unharmed except for how I can't type a capital w. I love Macs!) Anyway, around about the time I was obsessively scouring the couch upholstery and wondering just which part of my graduate education prepared me for cleaning up shit, I thought maybe it would be appropriate to acknowledge some of the many, many incredible things my mothers have done for me. Here's an abbreviated list:

• read out loud to me incessantly
• enthusiastically responded to all my accomplishments, major and minor
• sewed everything from my Halloween costumes to curtains for my house to my wedding dress and all my bridesmaids dresses
• professionally edited my school papers whenever requested
• provided on-call medical advice and the occasional pharmaceuticals when needed
• sat with me and held me as I labored with my first child
• asked about my dissertation
• didn't ask about my dissertation
• taught me how to cook and bake
• faithfully attended all my performances, and sent me flowers for every opening night
• made a welcoming home-base to return to from my travels
• took me on amazing trips to Europe
• spoiled your grandbabies rotten
  
• and most of all, taught me the meaning of unconditional love

I can only hope to do so many things for my girls. Happy Mother's Day!

The physics of porridge

This might be the best thing I've read on the internets all year:

The only way that the story can make sense is if, for some reason, the Mama Bear has the smallest portion of porridge. In which case, this is a story with a very different moral than the original-- it's a story about the oppression of the Mama Bear, either because the patriarchy is forcing her to eat only the scraps left behind after her husband and child have had their fill, or because the unhealthy woodland media culture has saddled her with a negative body image, leading to an eating disorder.

You really need to read the whole thing.

Comfort food posting

I know, I know: Where the hell have I been? What am I, blogger or a slacker? Well, mostly I've been trying to sleep, trying being the operative word. For example, here's how nap time goes: put down the Sprout, put down the Hatchling, wash out the accumulated bottles from the morning/previous night, do a half-assed picking up of the kitchen. Start to get really sleepy, lie down on sofa, doze for 10 minutes, get up to put pacifier back in Sprout's mouth, doze for 15 minutes, hear the cat making a racket right outside the Hatchling's door (he does this on purpose), go get cat and shut gate to upstairs, lie down and doze for 15 minutes, get up to nurse Sprout, doze for 10 minutes, wake up to telemarketer phone call, curse all telemarketers, hide phone in sofa cushions, shut cat out on the back porch, put pacifier in Sprout's mouth, take deep breath, lie down, doze for 20 minutes, and then the Hatchling wakes up.

Sounds restful, don't it? I'd probably be better off not even trying to nap, but I'm too tired not to.

Anyhoo, I was all jazzed up for tonight because I was actually going to Go. Out. To A Bar. (!!!) Mr. Squab was going to watch the girls and I promised to be back before the Hatchling's bedtime. It was going to be so awesome, seeing old friends and drinking, you know, the sweet, sweet booze. But then the Sprout decided that today was projectile vomiting day, and she participated with unusual vigor. She's fine - no fever or anything and she seems to have settled down now - but I really didn't think I could leave Mr. Squab at home with a hyperactive three-year-old and a barfing one-month-old. So no night out for me ...

... which leads me to the comfort food, aka the real point of this post. Since I was home, and since we didn't have any sweet treats in the house, I whipped up some chocolate pound cake from my mother's recipe, and holy crap is it good. I frankly don't really understand why anyone makes non-chocolate poundcake, unless it's because you haven't made it with this recipe. When I was little, we used to make my mom take the cake out early so it would fall a little bit and we could eat the extra dense, moist pieces - but have no fear, it's plenty dense and moist even when it's fully baked. We like it warm out of the oven with no adornment, but then I almost always frost it with cream cheese frosting once it's cooled off. Anyway, it's a simple recipe that makes crazy delicious cake, so try it out next time you have a yen for something yummy.

Chocolate Pound Cake
1/2 c. shortening
1 c. butter
2 3/4 c. sugar
5 eggs
3 c. flour
1/2 c. cocoa
1 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt
1 1/4 c. milk
1 tsp. vanilla

Cream butter and shortening together. Slowly add sugar, then add eggs one at a time and beat until fluffy. Whisk flour, cocoa, baking powder and salt together, and add to shortening mixture alternately with milk and vanilla. Beat on medium for 2-3 minutes. Pour into greased and floured tube or bundt pan. Bake at 325 degrees for 1 1/4 - 1 1/2 hours. Try to restrain yourself from eating entire cake at one sitting.

Cream Cheese Icing
8 oz. cream cheese
1 stick butter
1 box powdered sugar
6 Tblsp cocoa
1 tsp vanilla

Whip it all together and slap it on the cake. Or eat it directly from the bowl, whichever.

Tell it!

So, it's Friday afternoon, and I'm sitting at the dining room table pumping out some extra milk while checking blogs, and I come across this post on babble which almost makes me stand up at the table and shout YESSS! only I don't because that might wake up the baby and WE DO NOT WAKE UP THE BABY. Anyhoo, it's this essay about breastfeeding and cultural attitudes thereon, and you really SHOULD read the whole thing, but the part that made me want to jump up and yell was this:

We tell women that breast is best, we tell them to breastfeed exclusively for the first six months, we even tell them it will raise their kid's IQ (and we should give that a rest), and then we send them home with formula samples, or with a baby whose throat is too sore to suckle, or a mom whose milk is delayed because of surgery, and we don't teach technique, and we are offended when a woman breastfeeds in public, so we make her feel housebound, and we don't give a mother and her partner paid leave, and we send her to go back to a workplace without on-site childcare, and so her only alternative to formula is to plug her nipples into a machine, and if she's lucky she gets periodic breaks and a "non-bathroom lactation room" in which to pump, and if she's not she gets a toilet, and so on and so forth.

It's no wonder women are ready to burn their nursing bras.

But it's not that these public health recommendations are grounded in some return-to-the-1950s conspiracy, as Rosin suggests; they're grounded in physiology. And science is validating the physiology of the mother-baby dyad — that is, both are healthier when they remain close to each other during the first several months postpartum. It's not simply the milk that's inimitable; it's the mothering. (Indeed, "We actually don't know if feeding infants human milk has the same benefits as breastfeeding," says Labbok.) And mothering is something that our culture does not value enough to support. It is this dissonance between physiology and culture that has women so frustrated, and feminists like Rosin grasping at the bottle as a proxy for equality.

But is that really what we want? Powder rather than real power? In a brilliant New Yorker piece about the rise of the breast pump, Jill Lepore questions the direction of breastfeeding advocacy, which seems to be settling on the pump as a compromise to this conflict, with tax incentives for businesses with "Mother's Rooms" in which babies are explicitly not welcome ("pump stations," Lepore calls them) and Baby-Friendly hospitals sending women home with manual plastic pumps, and the president of the National Organization for Women calling for more "corporate lactation" programs. "It appears no longer within the realm of the imaginable that . . . 'breastfeeding-friendly' could mean making it possible for women and their babies to be together," writes Lepore. "When did 'women's rights' turn into 'the right to work'?"

What a great question. Why did American feminism evolve in such a way that we think of biology as destiny, and that destiny as a prison? Why are we so willing to surrender the parts and processes that makes us female rather than demanding that society support them? We've broken down doors and cracked glass ceilings, when what we need to do is redesign the building.

YEEEEESSSSSSSSSS. How can we get policy makers to hear this and understand it? How can we get the medical establishment to give breastfeeding and mothering in general more than just verbal support? (Did anyone ever mention to me that my c-sections were likely the reason my milk took so long to come in? No. And have I told you about the crazy night nurse who told me I shouldn't breastfeed my baby or hold it for too long?!!?) Breast is best: OK. We get it. But it's also goddamnmotherfucking HARD for a whole lot of us, for a whole host of reasons. Maybe it's time for the people pushing the breast-is-best message to stop using it to make mothers feel guilty and start using it to push for social changes that will actually enable families to breastfeed if they can or find optimal alternatives if they can't. For chrissakes.

Oh, and on the same topic - this post has some interesting information, too.

Plaything for a dud economy

Uses to which the Hatchling put a single piece of tissue paper over the course of an hour this evening:

1. Baby blanket for her doll.
2. Pillows for her head and her doll's body as they lay on the carpet in a meditational pose. (Me: "What are you doing, honey?" The Hatchling: "I just wistening to my music."
3. Changing pad/diaper, again for her doll.
4. Drape for Daddy's foot.
5. Toreador-style hankie to wave in the air.
6. Thing to stuff up her shirt, look in the mirror, and try to find it again.
7. Sculptural material for found art project involving carefully removing tiny shreds of the tissue, balling them up, and placing/stacking them around/on the bigger sheet.
8. Elephant Man-style face mask, looking through the holes torn for the art project above.

And I probably missed some uses. I mean, christ: why did we spend all that money on awesome birthday presents when we could've just gotten her a damn box of kleenex?

Happy Earth Day

Three things:

1. Not to harsh your enviro-buzz, but check out this post by Kevin Drum. Really puts all that recycling you're so committed to in perspective, don't it? (Not that I'm going to quit recycling or anything. But perhaps some legislative oversight is in order, no?)

2. This is a damn good op-ed.

3. Go look at this blog, and crack up. I can SOOOO see the Hatchling doing something like this.

Now go do something tree-huggy.

Three Years Old

Dearest Hatchling,
Boy howdy. You turned three years old yesterday, and what a year it has been! I thought the difference between one and two was big, but the difference between two and three is ... also big! This year has been all about growing up, physically, emotionally, verbally, mentally - you've been covering all the bases. You're wearing 5T clothes and toddler size 11 shoes, and you dwarf every other kid your age at school or on the playground. At some point in the future your Viking-like proportions may be a hurdle to get over, but right now you don't see anything odd in being a good head taller than your peers, and neither do they. Here's hoping that lasts.

But your physical prowess is not limited to growth - oh, no! You also are really good at playing catch - I mean, you actually catch the ball a lot, which is pretty good for age three - and you have a scary throwing arm. Perhaps softball is in your future? But then, we wouldn't want to deny your possibly greater talent for the terpsichorean arts. You've loved to dance pretty much since you could walk, but you've now reached a point where you can incorporate others' choreography (you're particularly fond of the "dancey-dances" from Yo Gabba Gabba) in addition to creating your own. Often, this past winter, as soon as Daddy got home from work, it was dance time for the whole family. You'd spend maybe 10 minutes carefully explaining and teaching us new moves ("Ok-ok-ok, now how you do DIS one is, hands WAAAAY uppa dee air! Good job, evvyone!") and then it was follow-the-leader time in a joyful free-for-all. Sure, sometimes you look more like you're channeling Elaine on Seinfeld than Leroy from Fame (Original Fame reference! HOLLA!), but either way the result is purely awesome to behold.

Verbally, you've expanded your vocabulary by leaps and bounds, and if you're still not *quite* as articulate as a lot of kids your age, it certainly doesn't stop you from communicating with us. Sure, your pronunciation often verges on Swedish Chef, but your dramatic arts are Sarah Bernhardt all the way. The gestures! The expressions! The condescending smiles! The vehement stomping of feet! At our weekly parent and kid class, the teacher refers to you as "exuberant" and that pretty much sums it up. You have big feelings, big reactions to things, and that is both wonderful and exhausting.

Speaking of wonderful, you've been a real trouper throughout the whole pregnancy/birth/baby invasion process. Having a little sister is a beautiful thing, but it's also a biiiiiiiiig change from being the center of attention all the time, and I'm frankly bowled over by how generous you've been with the transition. You love to hold and kiss the baby, and you're the first person to alert us if she cries or seems at all unhappy. The other day after a tiring morning out, you were on the verge of a major tantrum, but when the Sprout started crying you stopped and said "help baby sister, Mama," so I'd be sure to know it was OK to tend to her first.

In fact, you're regularly willing to step aside, stand back and wait for the baby to be cared for before asserting your own needs, and this makes me a little bit sad - because who likes making the switch from star to co-star? - but mostly enormously proud. I know lots of parents who mourn the passing of babyhood or toddlerhood, who miss the previous stages as much as they look forward to the coming ones. I've never really felt that way, because you just keep getting better and better with each year. You're an amazing big sister and an amazing kid, and your daddy and I know we're so lucky to have you for our oldest daughter. Here's to another wonderful, exhausting, exuberant year.

love,
Mamala

The image of grace and dignity

You know what makes an outing to the park on an absolutely lovely spring day somewhat LESS enjoyable? When your nearly-three-year-old makes one of her patented breaks for freedom combined with an attempt to steal another kid's ball, thereby making it necessary for you to leap up, nursing baby still attached to your left boob, yelling COME BACK HERE RIGHT NOW and mouthing "I'm so sorry" to the other kid's mom, at which point the baby comes unattached, leaving your boob right out there for the whole park to see.

Not that I'm particularly modest or anything. But still. It's a little wearing.

One Month Old

Dearest Sprout,
Holy hannah, I cannot believe that it's already been one month since we welcomed you into the world! I'm going to do my best to write you monthly letters for the first year, just like I did for your big sister, but let me apologize in advance if I don't make it every month. I had no idea how EASY it was with only one kid until I had two.

I must say that, overall, your birth was a lot more relaxing than your sister's. Sure, you came two days early, but you timed it for when our doctor was on call and Daddy was already off work, so we can't really complain. My, but you were (are) a big baby, though! Almost three whole pounds bigger than your sister was. Way to raise the level of competition from the get go. It took the medical team quite some time to get you out, even with the C-section, and there was an audible reaction to your size as soon as everyone laid eyes on you. "Oh, that one's at LEAST 5 pounds," joked the nurse anaesthetist, and then everyone started laying odds on how big you really were. (The OR nurse called exactly at 10 pounds, 5 ounces.) You dwarfed the other babies in the nursery, and wowed all your visitors with vivid impressions of a grumpy sumo wrestler.

So: one month seems to be treating you pretty well, though as I recall it's the second month that started getting rough last time, so don't think you're off the hook or anything! So far you're an amazingly mellow and sweet little babysquab, happy to sleep and eat and stare around, only crying when you're hungry or gassy or way past needing a new diaper. To say that your place of residence is a little more chaotic than when your sister was a month old would be a vast understatement, but happily you've taken it all in stride, snoozing away while the Hatchling shrieks or dances or pitches fits in the background.

On the one hand, I feel bad that you'll never get the exclusive, undivided attention that your sister got when she was your age. On the other hand, I'm much more relaxed about my ability to parent you, so the attention you are getting is probably less likely to send you into therapy in later years. It all comes out in the wash, right?

Already this month, you've tackled learning how to nurse (still working on that one), getting a bath (hated the first one, loved the second one), getting your nights and days mixed up (you could stop that now, if you wanted), and, oh yes, shooting poop into your mama's face. You've been busy! As for the rest of us, we've been pretty busy, too, adjusting to this new addition to the household. I can say pretty confidently that all four of us are pretty tired and overwhelmed, working on getting more sleep and settling into a more normal routine. But the most important thing, as your father observed the day we brought you home from the hospital, is that "our family feels complete now." Thanks for completing us, baby girl. Now quit pooping in my face.

love,
Mama