The older brother must play . . . or something like that (do you see the joy in someone’s eyes, and the panic in the other’s?).

Note:  I was upstairs minding my own business slaving over a hot stove to make a meal for my family (or probably reheating a meal from my meal swap group and strategizing my next Scrabulous move).

I heard noises about “stinky poo” and then the clunk of the closet doors where we keep things like the washer/dryer, the mop, and the diaper changing gear. . .

My multitasking mind finally realized, “Hmm.  What could he be doing?  JJ’s downstairs.  Little A’s downstairs.  ‘Stinky poo.’  Wait, did he say, ‘Stinky poo’?  Oh, Lord.”

Downstairs I found one de-diapered Little A laying on the changing pad with big brother JJ muttering about putting on the Rear Schmear.

Needless to say, Little A was a mite concerned about that.

If JJ could get the diaper on with the frontside front and stop getting distracted by “BUSTERS!” on tv, that might’ve helped.  That, and actually wiping Little A’s tookus before attempting to schmear and diaper could be helpful as well (don’t worry:  this Reality TV photographer didn’t have a contract stipulating non-interference).

JJ’s also wanted to be a helper in other areas, like giving Little A toys, giving him a bath, and feeding him:  some of those helps have been more effective than others. 

Daily Drivel, JJ Jawings, Little A Adventures | No Comments »

It’s 7:48 a.m.

Both my children are still asleep.

……. !!!

One wonders if the rapture has happened:  are you feeling more ethereal and didn’t tell me?  Actually it’s the wonders of a preschool nature walk combined with some serious evening playroom time/couch jumping/running around bizerko hopped up on a dinner of M’n'Ms for JJ, while for Little A it was a morning of shots then screaming in the afternoon while Ma made a cheesecake (which is now dubbed the King of Pain cheesecake because that’s what Little A thinks he is:  him and Sting) and then watching brother in his cracked-out state.

Yes, poor Little A had his doctor’s appointment yesterday.  I was actually excited to go in because I felt like I had prepared well:  he can roll over, he’s very alert, and he’s feeling (dare I say it) pudgy.  Well, two out of three ain’t bad.

STATS

• 25 inches – 50th percentile
• can’t remember head size, but it’s 25th percentile
• 12lbs 15oz – 10th percentile

Stinkin.10th.percentile.   I thought we did so much better than that!  Apparently I need to start buying the gallon jugs of milk at the store instead of the half gallon, cause I must be weak:  the kid’s feelin’ heavy to me!  Or at least heavier.  His cousin who is a mere six days old only has to put on 3lbs 12oz at his own four month check to pass Little A:  not much of a feat since he’s already gained back all of his birth weight.  Overachiever. 

AND Little A was weighed a) directly after I fed him breakfast and 2) before he chose to pee ALL over the scale.  While we were talking with the nurse about how he had peed all over Dr. Tami right after he was born.  And how he peed all over Hubby that very morning.  And how he had projectile-pooped at 6am the previous morning (I was not harmed in the incident, but our diaper basket took a hit from the drive-by pooping).

We moved  him to the table to be examined, and he yarfed.  Twice.  Hello:  this one is defective – it’s sprung a leak.

I suppose I could be productive with this time of solitude.  Or I could finish watching Sting all decked out in his Dune gear:  with hair like that, he really must be the King of Pain – or maybe he’s just trying to share his pain, cause seriously:  ouch.

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | 3 Comments »

Dear Son A,

Happy day: you’re four months, and one day! And where better to celebrate it than take a trip to the beach with the Gran, Granddaddy, and Unca Matt? Where we can stay in an abode that is new and pretty and has a t.v. in every room with extended direct tv, because that’s what one wants to do when they come to the beach: watch reruns of Perfect Strangers (okay, guilty as charged).

I find it amazing every day the things you know and do. With your big brother I was all up on the Developmental Stages (thank you babycenter.com emails): “your child should be rolling over” “your child should be babbling” “your child should be climbing on objects so as to steal freshly baked cookies from the counter”

But this time I’m floored every time you do something new. Like grab a toy. Or almost roll over. Or laugh at your brother falling flat on his face for laughs, because pain in the best means of humor. I’m sorry that I’m not so up on everything. It doesn’t mean I love you less, but if you’d sleep more, I could actually have some free time to read up on the amazingness of a four month old. Although some people have pointed out that your kind aren’t so kind to others right now: please, please don’t be a joiner, or rather, stop being a joiner.

You are a sensory junkie, my friend. Friend Lion, a dangly rattley toy that hangs from your car seat carrier, is oh so your friend. You grab his crinkly, crunchy mane and bop him around to hear the tinkle sound that could only be made by the little fairies trapped inside (poor fairies). You’ve finally recognized the goodness of your swing. The other day I was folding yet another load of laundry, meaning my attention was divided, meaning the balance of the world was WAY off kilter. So I put you in your swing and simply turned on the lights’n'music option – you know, the “let’s start overstimulating our young as soon as possible” option. And you.loved.it. Looking glazed like all the high schoolers piling into OMSI to watch the midnight showing of the Floyd lazer lights show: oh, the pretty lights.

But being so sensory-oriented isn’t always such a good thing. Because your arms – they have sensors. Meaning you must twitch and flail and conduct a spastic orchestra when you are the least bit sleepy. But it does not help you sleep. Or me sleep. And your tummy? Sensors. Which say, “I’m HUNGRY NOW WOMAN” or “I DON’T LIKE WHAT WE’RE HAVING FOR DINNER WOMAN” OR “MY BELLY HAS THE TEENSIEST BIT OF AIR IN IT WOMAN” which is cause for great weeping, wailing, and gnashing of gums (which also have sensors telling you that someday you’ll have teeth, and you might start voicing the pain and discomfort that will come with that now, because you’d like to be ahead of the game). And your brother? Well, he’s the embodiment of all the lights and sounds on the earth: kinda like white – absorbs it all. Which means he might be a *wee* bit much for you at times, but don’t worry: you’ll get used to your nervous twitch – we all do and actually find it a bit endearing.

Tonight you will experience a new sensation: that of solid food. That’s right: it’s rice cereal time, baby. I know a lot of women wait until six months to give their kids solid food. And others talk about how much they enjoy the wonders and miracle of nursing. Those are the Good Mothers, which God did not deem for you to have. But know that when you want to do things like get your drivers license or work the grill or be the youngest kid to climb Smith Rock, I’ll hand you all the appropriate manuals and a batch of freshly baked cookies because you always need a batch of freshly baked cookies. And the other kids with the Good Mothers will have to be eating their cookies at home – poor, boring kids.

But as much as you are affected by sensations, you evoke sensations as well. When your dad tosses you in the air and you emit a silent squeal. When you’re getting your diaper changed and enjoy the freedom of your netherregions with kicks, kicks, and more kicks. When you have your Happy Morning time and can’t stop smiling at anyone and everyone who passes your way (oh, how the checkers at Freddies love you: soon you, too, will be showered with Fred Bear stickers – but please use them responsibly). When you grab something and your brother exclaims “Little A grabbed it! He did it! Good job: gimme five.” When you nestle down in my arms and sigh with relief because “finally, you got the message: I want *YOU* and only *YOU* to hold me.”

I want to hold you, too.

Love, Ma

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | 1 Comment »

So I haven’t been writing a lot since Little A was born. Actually, I haven’t been writing a lot since Little A became more than a sparkle in his mother’s eye. For some reason, I’ve been . . . wordless. But not really, because a lot of posts compose themselves in my head, but then a) I forget the witty words, 2) I don’t have time to write anything worthwhile due to picking up the house over and over and over again.

But more often than not it’s 3) I don’t think my kids would appreciate what I have to write. When JJ was little, he was the sole topic of my blog, and usually it was a forum for a gripe fest: “I’ve only slept this much last night”, “I’ve listening to this amount of screaming today”, “He yarfed in my wireless router and now I can’t connect online, i.e. adults, i.e. my life is oooovvvvveeeeeerrrrrrrr.” I’ve heard not-so-fun stories about me as a babe (and yes, mama, I know it’s not my fault; I know you loved me; but I also know that shipping me in a box to Abu Dhabi probably sounded pretty good . . . more than once), and I don’t know how I’d feel if they were available for all to hear.

Being a melancholy, I tend to look at life as a glass half-empty (or my favorite mug with a giant crack in it leaking sticky, staining liquid onto carpet that I’m never going to be able to get up . . . or something like that), and so many of my posts are not of the Pollyanna nature; therefore, I’m keeping them to myself (although some are pretty darn funny in a doom-and-gloom kind of way). But after last night, I just feel the need to purge. And if it damages my kids, oh well: there’s another necessary Journey to add to the list.

Little A has not been sleeping. Correction: Little A *used* to sleep. And Little A has not been eating. Correction: Little A *used* to eat. Then I had my wisdom teeth taken out. Which apparently removed his ability to slumber as well as for me to produce the edible spread he’s particular to. These side effects were NOT listed on the post-op care sheet.

See, if Little A had been a lousy sleeper and eater from the beginning, it’d be a little easier for me: I would have known no difference. But he’s gone from eating contentedly on one side to fighting me while eating on both sides and the howling bloody murder because heaven forbid he might actually have to work a little bit for his food. And he’s gone from waking once a night (and even a couple nights – not.at.all) to asserting his college night-owl self about two decades too early.

Last night was an especially crappy night (don’t tell JJ I said ‘crappy’: he likes to repeat that: not so good: at least it’s not like when I ran into Mom asking her why Dad said “Damn, damn, damn” ). Little A woke up at 1:15, which wouldn’t be all that big of a deal if he would’ve gone back to sleep well. But he didn’t. I had to work with him to stop moving his arms and throwing his head from side-to-side for quite some time. Then he woke up at 2:45. Hello: middle of my sleep cycle – so painful. Hubby actually took him, and then things happened (I think he had to be re-swaddled? . . . I was in delirium from FOUR MONTHS OF THIS): there was howling: I ran into the room, ran downstairs to warm up a pumped bottle EVEN THOUGH I FED HIM 1.5 HOURS AGO. He ate it. It wasn’t enough. I had to warm up another bottle. He ate it. JJ woke up. Came into our bedroom. Went into our bathroom. Lifted the toilet seat. Silence. A cry. I got up again: to a wet floor. Joy. Wiped down the floor. Changed his pants (cause he peed *on* them). Got him into bed. Hubby went to do battle with Little A: Hubby lost. I tagged him out and rocked Little A for 45 minutes. Went downstairs to pump because it was 4:30 when he normally eats. In the middle of pumping, Little A woke up. Hubby did not. Had to stop pumping, get Little A back down, finish pumping, and go back to sleep. For 45 minutes until Little A woke up again, and I hauled him into bed with me. And then he woke 45 minutes after that, I nursed him, and hopped in the shower. Hubby got him back to sleep, and he’s been sleeping for the last hour and a half.

Do you see how I could have a hard time trying to find positive things to write? Or even things in general? It’s amazing I can communicate, much less type coherent words: God bless spell check.

During one of the bottle feedings, Hubby tried to warm the bottle up on his own with Little A in tow. But in the midst of getting the lid on, he spilled some of the Liquid Gold. I heard him yell, sprinted downstairs to make sure no one was experiencing bodily harm, and realized I could have two reactions: I could cry or be mad, cause Lord knows how much I *LOVE* pumping (can I get a moooooo?), or I could recognize that it’s just spilled milk. That I have formula if I need as back up. That’s it’s just one night, and that it will pass.

And that I get to spend the weekend with my folks who will help us get some sleep, cause they have the magic Grandparent touch.

I know: they’re innocent darlings, aren’t they? So are harpies: pretty song to lure you to *death* – or at least sleep deprivation.

Daily Drivel, JJ Jawings, Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | 5 Comments »

Dear Son A,

Happy Day: you’re three months old! That means that three months ago, I was telling your father that he should go to work – the contractions weren’t that bad. And then I was IMing your dad that they were a few minutes apart, but he should stay at work. And then IMing your pappy that the doctor’s office confirmed I was in active labor, but I told him I still had time plenty of time even though they said I could (should) come in soon: he logged off two minutes later. After we dropped your brother off at a friend’s house, I told the old man that I neeeeded snacks from Freddies before we went to the hospital. And then that I neeeeeded a Burgerville soda. Which I haven’t had one in years, but when a woman in labor has a need . . . I knew you weren’t coming out: the lease may have been up, but you’re one of those tenants who prefers to linger til the last minute when the eviction crew comes through and throws you out on your cute little patootie which relieved itself all over the eviction folks (i.e. beloved Dr. Tami).

This afternoon I put you in your swing which you are slowly warming up to, only if we sit by and offer encouraging words like “way to swing!” and “what a big boy you are!” – cause man, sitting cute in a swing is tough work. And it’s not like we put you in the swing so we could go do other things: nope, not at all.

So I was offering you encouraging words (and pumping, but I don’t think you noticed my attention was divided), and I noticed something: you grabbed a toy. Most of these newfangled infant toys have an abundance of primary-colored plastic animal-shaped “manipulatives” so that you may be properly over-stimulated and engaging in America’s desire for gross excess at the earliest of ages. Your portable swing has a few hanging toys that make things sing and light up if you pull them: your brother LOVES them (shocking). But you could care less.

Until today. You looked at a hanging orange fish. And you moved your arm. And you grabbed it. It wasn’t a flailing, accidental grab: it was a very calculated move. You let go. And then you went to grab it again: it was almost like a science experiment – can I do this again? Will it feel the same? Is it really these limbs that are grabbing? And am I really in control of them?

It didn’t last long. I exclaimed my amazement at your moves, and your brother had to come and show you how to do it properly (i.e. over and over really fast – he’s going to rock at the bang-the-gopher-heads game at Chuck E. Cheese). But you were okay with that: you had your moment, and another would come again.

It hasn’t necessarily been the easiest of months – I won’t lie. Let’s say an exhausted and stressed mama on pain meds leads to lean pickins in the food department. And you were okay. And okay. And okay. And then NOT OKAY! AND NEVER OKAY AGAIN! I.E. you’d screech with despair at the mere sight of a jubbly because IT’S BROKEN IT DOESN’T WORK AND IT WILL NEVER WORK AGAIN AND I’M GOING TO DIIIIIIEEEEEE!!!!!!!. Which boy howdy does amazing things for the short order cook’s self esteem. But it’s the short order cook’s temperament who you’ve inherited (“I DON’T GET THIS MATH PROBLEM AND I WILL NEVER GET IT AND I’M MOVING TO AFRICA WHERE THEY DON’T CARE ABOUT INTEGRALS!!!!) who inherited it from your look-alike grandparents (THERE’S TERMITES IN THE WELL HOUSE AND THEY’RE GOING TO GET IN THE HOUSE AND THEY’LL RUIN IT AND WE’LL NEVER HAVE ENOUGH MONEY TO SELL AND MOVE !!!!! – they were carpenter ants – heh heh).

But there have been smiles.

And swinging outside.

And cuddles with brudder.

And not-so-cuddles with brudder.

And french fry eating with Dad; dude, you’re going to love chowing down on those things when you’re older.

Maybe that’s what you’re trying to tell me with your yowls: load up on the fried food, woman!

Love, Ma

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | 1 Comment »

Dear Son A~

Congratulations: you’ve made it to being two months old. Well, you’re two months and some odd days, but you turned two months while we were at camp, and I was too busy reeling from the fact that we did indeed make it one week away from your infant-to-toddler rocker to be able to write. So I figured I’d write today when you had your Two Month Well Child appointment with Dr. Tami – you know, that lady you peed on within the first five minutes of being outside of your Womb Room? And then half an hour later? Yeah, her.

Of course, I’m sure everyone is interested in your stats. Sadly enough, I still remember the percentages for your brother – they’re burned into my memory because they were something positive, or at least not negative, that I could talk about in regards to parenting. Let’s just say having a “spirited” child before the rainy season in Oregon coupled with a melancholy mom leads to some interesting dynamics. Your brother was 90th for head size, 90th for height, and 50th for weight. I don’t remember him being all that long, but I also don’t remember a lot from that time period (thank you God that sleep deprivation wipes out memory, lest you would never have come into existence).

Here are your numbers:
Head: 15.25
Length: 23.25
Weight: 10lb 6oz

Changes from birth:
Head: don’t know, but at least it wasn’t an orange on a toothpick (thank you for that)
Length: 20.5 (I think)
Weight: 7lb. 2oz.

Percentiles:
Head: 25th
Length: 50th
Weight: 10th

Yes, you are in the 10th percentile for weight. No wonder you look so long to me (even though you’re not): you got no belly to fill out that body! Dr. Tami says you’re fine and not to worry – that you’re just an “efficient eater” and “burn off all those calories being grumpy.” Oops: did I tell her that you’re grumpy? No worries: you can add it to the list of “ways my parents scarred me and I need a Journey to Wholeness” list – I’m still working through mine.

Dr. Tami thought you were delightful, and so did her nurse, mostly because you turned on your Early Morning Charm – something that helps me be happy to be awake, especially since I’ve been awake since 5:30 listening to your snort and need a little happy. She watched you almost roll over and told you to wait for two months. The nurse commented on how strong you are while stabbing you with the Poison of Life (shots): it’s nice to let others experience a little of the raucous movement I had while being your landlord.

Dr. Tami then told me about what a horrible child she was and that her mother swore she swaddled her until she was three. We may do that, because when you’re all sausage like and not dealing with the flailing limbs, you chill. And now we really can swaddle you thanks to Gran and the Swaddling Blanket of Life, much like the Jaws of Life, but in a lightweight cloth with teddy bears.

I would write more about what kinds of stuff you’re doing: pooping right after I change your diaper, holding it in at camp so that people would ask “what did you do for free time” and I would say “try to make Son A poop for an hour and a half – a total blast!” (cause let me tell you just how pleasant you are when you’re all backed up – not.so.much), staring at your dad and making happy baby noises, totally chilling out when you go out of doors, etc. But right now it’s Grumpy Baby Time, plus your brother just brought me blackberries that he dumped into a bag, and then he took the sticker that has your stats written on it and plastered it to your forehead: apparently it’s your personal nutrition label.

Love, Ma

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | 2 Comments »

• with a toddler who steals your cell phone on a regular basis and calls:

– the husband of a friend
– your brother
– your mom
– your dad
– voicemail
and brings you the phone babbling excitedly?
on a daily basis?
or sleeps with your cell phone, without your knowledge until morning time when you find it in his bedding?

• with an infant who prefers to be walked around being firmly patted on the butt at pretty much all hours of the day? Prefers it more than

– sleeping
– nursing
– cuddling
– being a pleasant member of society?

• with a toddler who likes to bring you things, hiding behind his back things like:

– purple flowers for you to wear in your hair
– toilet brushes
– cell phones
– his brother’s diaper
– library books
– your books like “God’s Ultimate Passion” and “Martha Stewart’s Housekeeping Handbook” – that’s a biggie to hide
– your nursing pads because you must need a new one
– a knife to cut the apple he’s hiding in the other hand
– his underwear and shorts – usually these aren’t handed but flung in the face
– his brother

• with an infant who does not realize that daily outings are an integral part of life and could care less that people adore him at:

– freddies, aka home away from home
– safeway, aka shop only with coupons
– the dollar store, aka cheap entertainment
– church, aka the happy place where mama gets a break
– the library, aka the other happy place where mama gets stuff that makes her brain work
– the park
– the other park
– the other other park
– win-co, aka yay bulk bagels!
– Ray’s, aka yay fresh produce!
– Naps, aka yay for the place that employed Uncle Bubba and Uncle Kyle for too many years
– the gas station that doesn’t make his mother go in to pay because they see the hint of craziness in her eyes at the thought of dragging two kids in to pay for gas when she has exact change in her hands

• two boys who love each other and sit together and make faces and work at simultaneously delighting their mother and pushing her just that much closer to the edge?

What to do . . .

JJ Jawings, Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | No Comments »

The other week JJ, Little A, and I were at a park for a play date. JJ made friends with four-year-old twins, twins who (because of the fact that they’re, well, twins) shared toys as though it was natural to always have a companion about. They had discovered a baseball underneath the play equipment and took turns hucking it in various directions at the park, and they quickly decided that JJ needed in on the action. Their mom and I were chatting about important political decisions such as which library story time to attend and when to put the munchkins in preschool. Out of the corner of my eye I saw JJ throw the baseball towards the playground rings, you know, the kind you swing from one to another while trying not to dislocate your arm.

“Wow, did you throw that right though the ring?!! Good job!” exclaimed the mom.

The ring moved as though it had been hit: I figured he just hit the ring and the wonderful, kind, affirming mom was giving him the benefit of the doubt.

The twins heard their mom’s praise and deemed it necessary to earn some themselves. They spent a good ten minutes trying to throw the ball through the ring (which, really, is not all that big); their shots didn’t even come close – a good foot away from the silver hoop. Finally JJ had enough, took the ball from one of them, and hucked it. Just as I was admonishing him not to take toys from other people, WHOOSH – the ball sailed right through the ring.

“Uh, yeah, he gets that from his dad.”

Eye-hand coordination is not so much a trait associated with my genetic background. And oddly enough, I assumed that all of JJ’s traits would be evident in Little A as well: Hubby’s genes totally laid the smackdown with our first born. But this is not to be.

Ever since Little A had a crying fit that was immediately ceased when placed on my chest, I realized that we have a cuddler. And a napper . . . but only if someone’s holding him. Now, one of my dad’s favorite activities is napping: he excels at it, takes great pleasure in nodding off. He even does this (weird) inhaing/puff thing which I’ve heard come now in a Half Pint version. He also loves being outside: just a brief jaunt outside can cease a yowl-fest. My dad’s other favorite activity? Backpacking. Let’s just say that I already know which pack JJ and Little A will be sporting in just a few brief years.

Tonight Little A had his first bath. Yes, he’s been bathed before, but it’s generally of the laying-on-the-counter-and-sponging-him-off variety because, well, we’re lazy. And he doesn’t require a lot of water. He hasn’t really dug the sponge bath – he hasn’t hated it, but there are definitely protests that there are other ways he’d rather spend his time, such as contemplating if the iphone will be as technologically significant as all the technogeeks think. But tonight, as we’re solo and running out of things to entertain him for “activity time.”

I ran the water, undressed him, and placed him in the bath, expecting severe protesting. He curled into a little fetal ball . . . and then tried to fall asleep. But not before he pooped. I cleaned him off with the washcloth while Little A stayed curled up, eyes closed. The crying came eventually, but only after I took him out of his little bathing sanctuary. For as long as I can remember, one of his granddaddy’s nightly routines is a bath. My Nana did the same thing: she didn’t even have a shower in her house.

Little A is so his grandaddy’s boy.

(And as for the pooping in the tub, that is a trait that historically has been associated with a member of my family who shall remain nameless so that we may still have holiday dinners in the same room.)

JJ Jawings, Little A Adventures | 3 Comments »

Dear Son A*:

You are one month old. Actually, you are one month old and a couple of days. I would’ve written this post on the day of your month birthday, but you preferred that my hands were kept busy in other ways, such as butt patting and diaper changing.

It’s strange to think that one month ago (and a couple of days) I had trouble driving my car because the steering wheel kept rubbing against my enormous belly. Now I have trouble driving because I’m trying to steer and keep a pacifier in your mouth because, let’s face it, right now the car seat is *not* your friend.

Other things that are not your friend:

• Your swing
• Your infant-to-toddler rocker
• Your bouncy seat

Things that are your friend:

• Your pacifier
• Your Ergo
• Any human who is willing to let you lay on their chest to sleep and or pat your little butt into slumberland

For you, Son A, are all about the personal touch that comes from human comfort. Which is brand new to me: I believe the first time your brother snuggled with me was after a nap when he was over 18 months. I remember thinking, “This is nice. This won’t last.” And it didn’t. So to slow down because you think we move to fast, well, that’s a stretch for me.

So is sharing a bed. Dude, you really really dig our bed. And so do I: but mostly because it was *my* bed. Now it’s your father’s and my bed. And you think that it’s for all three of us. . . . This could be a problem.

You are quite a quaint creature. It shocks me every time I look down at you while your nursing (or pushing off of me while I’m convincing you that the jubbly is indeed an okay thing) because you are *so* different from your brother. Yes, every kid is different: I recognize that. But the depth of those differences is just so striking. I got used to one type of kid: a tan, blond mover and shaker. And now I have a pale, brown-haired cuddler. How these traits can coexist is going to be an interesting adventure. It’s probably a good thing that I’m so sleep deprived that I can’t fully recognize what’s going on, because I might just toss in the towel and move to Ireland (that’s what I was going to do before I met your dad: oh, that life-plan-disrupting father of yours).

I would continue to wax eloquent about you on the internet, but unlike your Blogstar brother, you don’t seem to want to be talked about. How do I know? The vocal yowlings seem to indicate that you believe my hands could be put to better use.

Back to the butt pat.

*Not to be confused with Son J. I figured letter designation was preferable to number designation, cause really, who wants to be number 2?

Little A Adventures | No Comments »

Abel Anders
born Monday
7lbs 2oz
19.75in

Life is good.
(And yes, I’m saying that despite the sleep deprivation that’s already kicked in. Now, when Hubby goes back to work, that may be another story).

Little A Adventures | 2 Comments »