What I wouldn't give

 

The chances of having one baby who has major breastmilk allergy is slim. Having two, even more rare. Three? Unheard of. Except for me. And my babies.

There are those medical professionals who don't believe what we eat has any affect at all on babies. I know better. Because I lived it, and I'm living it again.

This is the longest I've exclusively breastfed. I practically gave my right nipple to make it happen (fortunately it healed). I eat only to keep myself alive and my breastmilk producing. Otherwise, there's no enjoyment in chewing the same bland foods day in and day out.

I'm not complaining. Far from it. There's not much I wouldn't do in order to safely breastfeed my son.

And yet, I fear it's not enough. Again. I thought I'd finally gotten lucky because even though my first two kids did not respond to an elimination diet, Xander was.

But this week has been rough. He had a day with green poop and I saw some blood. Then this morning, after sleeping through the night for just the second time, he woke up, nursed, and when he spit up, it was bright yellow. I'm talking flourescent.

We went on an outing this morning and he was in a good mood, actually allowed us to put him in the stroller. He only fussed when it was time for him to eat. Then we went on an errand, and he fell asleep in the car. We stopped at ToysRus, and I went in with Sawyer and Sage.

Next thing I know, there's David coming through the store carrying Xander under the armpits, the diaper bag slung over his shoulder. The little man had a massive blowout, up his back, and was being marched straight to the restroom.

Xander took a great nap in the afternoon, then woke up and ate. He ate again about an hour and a half later, and soon after he pooped. And in it there was a big blob of mucous and more blood.

I did not change my diet. But he might be becoming sensitive to more than he was before. I'm not sure.

There are so many women who take nursing for granted. They don't fret over every bit of food they put in their mouths, afraid it might cause their baby stomach cramps. They never get nervous before taking off a poopy diaper, wondering what it will reveal. They wean because they want to, or because their baby wants to, not because the milk they are producing, that's supposed to be the perfect food, is actually hurting their baby.

I envy them.

Intellectually, I know if I have to switch Xander to the prescription-only formula, he will be fine. He will get through his first year happy and healthy, just like my first two kids.

Emotionally, well, I'm having a tough time. He's my last baby. I love the time he and I spend nursing. It's my little escape, my quiet time to spend just with him.

We gaze.

I will miss it. And so will he. He knows where to go for comfort, and I am happy to be that for him.

I'm not ready to give it up.

Not yet.

And that's what kills me.

Fairies and Rainbows make me sneeze!

Mommy? Are you allergic to unicorns?

I don't think so, why?

Because I want one!

Tiny Dancer!

This is the tap dance part of Sage's recital. She did awesome and her Dad thinks she's the best one out there!

She Danced in Lipstick

Apparently - and tragically - I appear to have a touch of Pageant Mom in me. You know, one of those women who thinks it's totally awesome for their preschool-aged daughter to have a fake tan, hair extensions and wear 17 pounds of makeup, all in the name of competition. 'Cause looks are everything, internets!

I had no idea that it could also be kind of fun. In a VERY limited dose. I knew I had to put a little blush and lipstick on Sage before her dance recital today. The stage lights are bright and the kids can get really washed out. So imagine my surprise when I found myself brushing a little light purple eyeshadow and applying a little mascara on my baby girl's perfect eyes.

Don't judge me, people! It was just a teeny bit, I swear! And, and, and, she NEEDED just a touch! Seriously! All the other moms were doing it! When we were getting the girls ready to go on, everyone was putting lip gloss on their daughters. I bought this pink lipstick last night for Sage and it was, as another mom delicately put it, "a bit loud." Oh well. She's Mormon. She probably thinks we're all going to be wearing our flashy war paint in Hell.

Really, I was just trying to hide the remnants of the macaroni and cheese around Sage's mouth.

 

So earlier in the day, we had the dress rehearsal at a local high school where the recital would take place. It was supposed to start at 10, but they were running late. What made it even more fun was it was 95 degrees outside and possibly 152 inside because they didn't have access to the air conditioning.

Meanwhile, I'm freaking out because Xander was home with David and Sawyer, and I thought I'd be home by 11 to feed him. I called to check in and heard my poor baby crying. Gah! We got home just after noon, and Xander was still alive, so it wasn't entirely awful.

Then it was lunch and a quick touch-up with the curling iron. I'd just told her we were going to go upstairs for makeup.



We then headed back to the school. The air conditioning was still not on. And then I realized one of Sage's tap shoes had fallen out of her bag, so I had to race across the parking lot to the car to get it. I was then attractively dripping with sweat by the time I made it back. But at least she had her shoe. Unlike during the dress rehearsal, when I realized her tights were at home in the drier and made David drive over to the school to drop them off.

Sage's group was doing the second and fourth dance of the program. I have to say I was really proud of how well she did. I was wondering if she'd be a little bit deer-in-headlights on stage, but she did the dances and looked like she was actually having fun.

We got to see them at intermission, where Sage suddenly started posing. And even agreed to take a picture with me.

We had to watch the entire recital because they took a group bow at the end of the show. Then Sawyer and I went backstage to present Sage with flowers. She was VERY excited about this.

 
 
 

But you know, it didn't take long for her to get all mean. Sawyer said "Sage, I loved your dancing." And Sage's response? Nothing. Totally ignored him. Then when David tried to take a picture of them together, she kept shoving Sawyer away. It was awful.

Then she refused to take off her costume, even though she knows she can't fit in her carseat with it on. I finally got her to change her clothes. But it just sucked that we had to have any issues on her special day.

Maybe she was just tired?

 

Sleeping beauty.

Going in for the kill

Poor Xander. Not only does he have his first runny nose, he also has his first tooth. With another one on the way.

But as bad as I feel for him, I believe I feel worse for myself. That's right, blogosphere, I am pity-partying my 40 year-old ass while my tiny four month-old is suffering. There. I said it.

The thing is, when Baby is miserable, so is Mommy. Because for the past three nights, this child is up about every hour and a half, all night long. Last night, he was even up twice within an hour. And of course, he wants to nurse the entire time. It gets to where I don't even remember putting him back in the co-sleeper next to our bed. I just wake up and realize he's not on me anymore - until I reach over, once again, and put him back on.

Now, if I had nice, well-behaved older kids, perhaps this would be bearable. Instead, I have raised two vicious, show-no-mercy creatures who, upon sensing with their evil-child radar that Mommy is weak, weak, weak, go in for the kill. By that, I mean they slap each other, call each other names, run upstairs and yell the minute Xander has finally gone down for a nap. And jeebus the whining and the sassiness! ARGH! They don't listen to me at all, probably because they know I'm too tired to knock their heads together.

 
 

And maybe a nocturnal baby combined with his siblings' mutiny wouldn't be so awful. But wait. There's more.

The other night, David was taking the two kids for a run in the jog stroller while I put Xander to bed. Suddenly David comes into the room and announces that he has just snapped our stroller in half by crushing it with the garage door.

Mother. Fucker.

Yes. Let me tell you about this stroller. My friend handed it down to me, which is important, because otherwise I could not afford it. It's a Quinny, and retails for over $600. The only other strollers we have are 1) a snap and go that does not work with our current carseat 2) an awful Combi we got for Sawyer that sucks 3) a Bob single and 4) a Bob duallie revolution (Xander is too young to be in the Bobs).

The Quinny has a frame where you can change out the thing your child rides in. It fits a bassinet, the carseat and the regular stroller seat.

We decided to try out the stroller seat attachment since Xander DESPISES riding in the carseat. It's so bad that I never take him out for a walk since he screams the entire time, and I'm (shockingly) not cold-hearted enough to stick on my headphones and drown him out for three miles.

He LOVED the stroller seat. He got to sit almost straight up and could look around. He barely made a peep on our walk to and from the park. I was stoked because now I could finally exercise! Woohoo!

And that very night, it all came to a crashing halt with the closing of the garage door.

This all explains why, before taking Sage for dance this morning, I frantically searched for my nursing cover, and when I just could not find it, I burst into tears. We left without it (and without a stroller to put Xander in) and two minutes later, David called. He'd found it stuffed into our couch.

I turned around and drove home. There was David, standing on the corner holding the nursing cover like it was a ticking bomb. He gently handed it to me through my window, possibly relieved to see I wasn't having a nervous breakdown.

At least, not today.

Four Months

He smiles, he laughs, he rolls over, he reaches out to grab things.

He cries, he refuses to nap, he wakes up every two hours during the night.

Happy four months, Mr. Man!

I'd like to say Xander has suddenly turned into an easy baby, but then you'd yell "LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE!" Consider this typical scene (now, one might argue he was chafed because he had to wear a pink bib):



But there are also times that he is so freakin' cute I forget what a jerk he was just a moment before. I get that he's been teething, that his fists are always covered in drool from constantly being jammed into his mouth. I can see a tooth and wish it would pop through and give him some relief. Guess he's entitled to be a bit pissy.

He actually is sleeping better, usually wakes up sometime between 3 and 4 a.m., then goes back to sleep for an hour, nurses again, then sleeps for maybe two more hours. Not bad. I guess. I'd heard tell about bad sleepers, I'd just never had one. Until now.

He's a strong little monkey. He can already scootch and actually dug his feet in and propelled himself forward today. Guess he knows he's got some siblings to catch up to. I'm a little scared I might have my first climber.



I'm stoked to say we are still nursing. We had one episode last week with a bloody poop, because I selfishly added one slice of bread (wheat) a day and some turkey bacon which lists soy lecithin as the last ingredient under the "contains 2 percent or less" portion. Something bugged him, and since I cut both those out, he seems pretty good.

I find out Tuesday at his checkup how much he's grown. I admit to being a little proud that I've kept with this diet despite at times being incredibly hungry, incredibly bored of turkey turkey and more turkey, and annoyed that I'm not getting a side benefit of losing any weight. Where's the justice?

But when I nurse him, I finally get it. I understand why so many women do it longer than I think I would (or could, because it's a big hell to the no for extended nursing - this diet would KILL me!).

This is the longest I've ever exclusively breastfed. So even though this is my third, I'm still figuring it all out, and it's funny how as he gets older, it gets more interactive; Like how he'll stiff-arm me when he's feeding on my right side, but on the left, his hand will either knead my skin or clutch my shirt.

Sometimes he will gaze up at me with his big, brown M&M eyes. I will look at him and smile - and then his whole face lights up. He unlatches, smiles a huge dimply smile, then turns his head and latches right back on. He'll do that a few times in a row, playing a little game.

It melts me, how I can give such a small person such huge joy.

These are moments that I hope I will always remember, especially when he's 17 and has three earrings and stays holed up in his room listening to heavy metal.

These babies crack me up!

I personally think they're a lot less creepy then the dancing baby on Ally McBeal, but that's just me! Now if I could only get Xander to do this...HA!

Get on the Floor

All it takes is for David to play the music on his iPod and our living room - or garage, depending on where we are - turns into American Bandstand (remember that one, kids? Dick Clark? Maybe I should've said So You Think You Can Dance?).

I'll scoop up Sawyer or Sage, if Xander isn't already being carried, of course, and we'll start spinning and booty shaking and raising the roof. Xander is a big fan of the snake.

Meanwhile, David's usually doing the robot (either that, or he's having a seizure, tough to tell) and the kids scream and try to make up moves of their own.

The soundtrack? Almost always Michael Jackson. Old school, before he turned all weird.

I got to see Michael Jackson in concert during his Victory tour back in 1984. My family was visiting my grandfather in Philadelphia and MJ happened to be in town. My sister, brother and I were lucky enough to get tickets, and even though the seats were far from the action, we still shrieked every time he moon walked, or tilted his hat, grabbed his crotch or pretty much did anything.

So yeah, I watched his memorial service the other day. From my house. I wasn't at Neverland Ranch, sobbing into my old concert tee shirt. Still, I admit to being a little sad that he's gone

I mean, he was a total freak, but in a tragic sort of way. I always thought that the stuff with little boys was because Michael simply saw himself as a little boy. He really didn't get why it was inappropriate, to say nothing of possibly illegal, to have slumber parties with children. To him, it was innocent.

After all the abuse at the hands of his father, AND being so famous so young, what kind of childhood did he really have? Maybe among children is where he felt safest. Now, if he molested any of these boys, then of course there's no excuse. None.

The speakers at his memorial, from Queen Latifah to Brooke Shields to Magic Johnson all portrayed Michael as not just a musical icon who broke barriers for African Americans (he was the first to have videos on MTV), or someone who is in the Guiness Book of World Records for the massive amount of money he's donated to charity, but as, simply, a nice, nice guy.

I've been reading facebook posts and of course the comments from that senator about how the world is now glorifying a pedophile - and we should instead be honoring all our servicemen and women who are off fighting.

It occured to me that we did honor them by voting Bush the hell out of office and electing Barack Obama. That says a TON for how much Americans care about our men and women in Iraq and Afghanistan. We want them home and out of this senseless, ridiculous war.

I'm sure if Elvis Presley had died during the age of internet and 24-hour news stations, the coverage would've been the same. That's just how things are now, right or wrong. It's a circus. I just choose to remember what his music means to me and roll my eyes at the rest.

We can never understand what it was like to be Michael Jackson, as his brother Marlon pointed out in his closing statement. But we can understand how we feel when we hear his music, as we swing around our children and listen to them shriek in delight.

And remember, he was a father, too.

Happy Screams

This is what summer's all about, making memories that'll last forever. Who doesn't remember wave dodging?

Here's a little mid-summer happy dance and a smile or two for you all...

Parenting Autopilot

Once you have three kids, you suddenly go from a man-to-man defense to a zone. It's impossible to be three places helping three kids at one time. You have to divide and conquer.

Frankly, it's exhausting. Especially when one's a little tyrant. What with all that wanting to be fed, held, comforted and carried all the time.

You get worn down. You worry that if you give in a little, the whole house of cards is coming down. And you're going to be at the bottom. Flat on your ass.

That's why this little thing became such a big moment for me. It happened the other day when Sage played her favorite game, "swimming." This is when she puts on her purple swim cap, hot pink goggles and her Ariel bathing suit with the gauzy scales on the bottom, lies on the floor and pretends to swim. (Why don't I have a picture of this? See above note about the tyrant. I will take one the next time she plays, I promise!)

This day, she was done with her swimming but kept on the bathing suit. She then wanted to go up the street to play with the neighborhood kids.

I almost - almost - told her she had to change out into shorts and a tee shirt.

Because it's like sometimes I feel I'm on parenting autopilot. Where you just automatically say "no." No you can't have just one more cookie. No I won't squirt whipped cream into your mouth. No you can't go to bed without brushing your teeth or stay up even one more second longer. NO NO NO NO!

Have I gotten to the point where I'm not really even considering the question? I mean, would it really be so terrible to give in occasionally? A little more fun might go a long way.

So when Sage, looking absolutely adorable, looked at me, waiting to hear my decree, the switch must've flipped. Maybe, just maybe, I'm finally loosening up a bit. Because all I said was she had to put on her sandals. And then she could go play.

It's summer. It's okay if my 3 1/2 year old wants to wear a bathing suit when there's no pool in sight.

It made her happy. And you know what? It made me happy, too. Happy that I could let my kid be a kid.

And you know what? The world did not come to an end.

My Little Star

I wanted to play softball. Rec softball. I loved sports. I was no superstar, but that didn't matter. I just wanted to be out there.

Mom said nope. Why? Because she didn't want to have to drive me to practice or games. Not that she had anything better to do. She was a stay-at-home mom in those days. She nevertheless let me know that she was not "your chauffer."

So softball wasn't happening.

I do have a vague recollection of playing soccer when I was really young, and maybe one ballet class. It all ended before I was really into it. Before I really wanted it.

Maybe it was because I was a third child. Maybe she was too worn out by the first two, though come to think of it, they didn't do much sports either.

I guess that's why I encourage my kids to do whatever activity they'd like. It's funny, though: Sawyer isn't really all that excited about anything, while Sage, who's sat through all of Sawyer's swimming lessons, tee ball and soccer games, couldn't wait for her turn.

She's been in dance for almost a year and loves it. And she finally, finally is old enough to do some soccer. This past week I took her to her first soccer camp. It was just an hour a day for a week.

First objective: look as cute as possible.



That accomplished, she really loved the whole thing. At least, at first she did. Each kid got their own ball and all they had to do was practice dribbling that first day. She and I kicked the ball to each other. She's actually pretty good.

Enjoy the happy pictures. Cause it didn't last.

The coach tried to organize them into a game. Problem was, most of the kids had no clue what was going on - except for a boy who was almost five. He got the ball and never let go. Oh, and that ball? Yeah, the coach decided to use Sage's for the game. She proceeded to burst into tears because all the other kids were playing with HER ball.

So David retrieved it. She still wanted nothing to do with the game. She wasn't the only one. This little guy (the camp was for ages 3-4) then tried to dribble, and the ball went out ahead and the big kid got it - causing the little one to also start bawling.

It was ugly. I decided Sage and I needed to have the talk about No Crying in Soccer. Xander also listened attentively to my speech.

Luckily, the hour was up. The good thing was she was happy to go back the next day. And the coach was smart enough not to try a game again. Wednesday, the coach did a drill which he threw all the balls in the middle, and the kids had to run backwards or crawl or whatever out to the balls, then dribble back.

Sage at one point got knocked down by another kid. She sat on the ground for a second, then got up and kept going. She was SO proud that she was being so tough. Adding to her confidence was the fact she was the only kid who could actually skip to the middle.

It's a funny age. There was a little boy who wet his pants and spent an entire session lying on the grass. Another one plopped down on his butt in the middle of the field and sucked his thumb.

Sage's ony issue was her gnat-like attention span. Hey, the coach was British, half of the adults had no clue what he was saying.

Otherwise, she had fun. The best news? She's ready for her next camp - soccer and tee ball - in another week.

Maybe that's not the best news. Even better is she's having fun. I'll drive her anywhere for that.

The unthinkable

Remember the first time you left the house by yourself, after your child was born? The whole time in the car it felt so odd, not having a little creature in the car seat.

It's just weird, because 99.9 percent of the time, you have a tiny passenger. A baby, facing backwards so you can't see the face. But you know by the silence that he's been - finally - lulled to sleep.

It seems unthinkable - impossible - that you could ever forget he's back there. Unfortunately, it happens.

There's an incredibly sad story in Broadsheet, about a little four month-old up in Northern Cal whose father forgot to drop him off at daycare. The boy's mother realized he wasn't at daycare when she went to pick him up. She instead found him, secured in his carseat, in the father's car in the parking lot for the BART.

Dead.

The Broadsheet story also links to another article about a mother who, for the first time, talks about leaving her 10 month-old daughter in her carseat. It's incredibly touching and devastating at the same time.

I can't imagine how you ever get over that. These parents were doting, loved their child, were by all accounts good parents. So how does this happen? How do we forget about the most valuable thing we have? It seems inconceivable, and yet, it happens about two dozen times a year, according to the Broadsheet story.

There is no answer, other than being distracted, overloaded.

Most important is how to prevent it. An alarm if the driver leaves the car and weight remains in the car seat? It's a possibility.

As my husband points out, maybe it's not such a bad thing that our baby cries whenever we stop the car (hence, the crazy rocking dance our SUV does at every red light).

It is much better than silence.

Graduation Day

He almost missed graduation.

That might not seem like such a big deal. It's just preschool, right? But when Sawyer got really sick this week, I started to stress. I wanted him to have the experience of marching to the park with his class, singing the songs he'd been practicing, and having his family there cheering him on.

He woke up this morning and I didn't think he was going to make it. He's got this thing where whenever he gets a cold or virus, it goes right to his lungs. This time was especially bad. The inhaled steroids weren't working, so he had to take an oral one. They don't call it 'roid rage for nothing, people! The kid became the King of Nutsville. It was awful, especially the yelling of "Mommy, I'm going to poop on your head!" followed by hysterical laughter.

Luckily (for all of us) he started to get better and the doctor he saw Thursday said he could probably come off the steroids. I thought we were totally in for today. But he had a nasty cough this morning and seemed kind of out of it.

I told him he might have to stay home. He cried. Not because he was going to miss the activities, but because he was going to miss the rice crispy treats his grandmother was bringing.

I ran down to his school (it's basically across the street) and talked to his teacher. She said they weren't going to get to the park until about 10:45 a.m. I figured he'd feel better by then but I knew he'd have a tough time marching from the school to the park. So we decided he could meet his class half-way. She gave me the graduation cap he'd made out of a paper bowl, cardboard and sequins, and I came back home to give him the news.

He was happy and anxious and already had his sneakers on.

So when it was time, David dropped us off so he could park closer to where the graduation was to take place. Sawyer and I waited. Soon we heard a tinny rendition of Pomp and Circumstance and saw yellow and blue balloons.

There was his class, with his teacher holding the boom box. When the kids saw him, they all said "THERE'S SAWYER!" It was awesome to hear them excited to see him. He got in line right behind his good friend, who was first.



I sprinted across a baseball field to tell David they were coming so he could get the video camera. The group marched toward us on the path, and just before they got to the place where they were going to sing, Sawyer broke out of the line and came over to hug me.

(We got this on video, but no one will ever see it because I, still in my maternity pants, was showing more crack then a busload of plumbers. Or hos.)

Next, they lined up under an archway. Their teacher read them a little poem and she thanked us for letting her teach our children.

It was time for the perfomance. The kids sang eight short songs about going to kindergarten. It was beyond cute. I could totally hear Sawyer's voice. I kept trying to really savor the moment. They are so little and so incredibly adorable and I know it'll seem like two minutes later we'll be at his high school graduation.

 

The teacher then handed out diplomas. And announced the graduating class of Kindergarten Connection, 2009!



It was the only time I got truly teary-eyed. I mean, when he started in the fall, Sawyer couldn't even hold a crayon correctly. Now he's writing his name and a few other words from memory (he's quite good at 'Mom' and 'Dad'). Still not reading, though I know he will this time next year.

Last year, he never really made a good friend. That changed this year. He's got a bunch of them, boys and girls. He's already talking about all the playdates he wants this summer and he's very excited to go to kindergarten in the fall.

I think he'll do just fine. And so will I. Because I've got another one to watch out for...

 

The Sweetest Thing

 

When my little boy is mayor of Crazy Town, especially now when he is in a roid rage (thanks to a steroid he's taking to help him breathe normally again), I just need to look at this picture he drew a few days ago to remind myself what a sweet kid he can be.

That little bean-shaped thing is a heart. And that's me beneath it. I'd say he got my hair exactly right.

Three Months

 

We have made it to the first major milestone. Both of us. The baby and me.

Three months.

That would be 13 weeks, 1 day.

I'm still without more than a few consecutive hours of sleep a night. But who's counting?

It still seems surreal that I even have a baby. Sometimes I look at him and I'm all "Who are you and how the hell did you get here?" It was just over a year ago that I ran a marathon. And now I have a baby and baby weight.

Crazy.

We are still getting to know each other, Xander and I. Or is it Xander and me? Now that he's no longer screaming constantly, I actually have a chance to study him without both hands clutched over my ears.

He is very, very smiley. He thinks it's absolutely hilarious when I take the sleeve of his shirt and pull it to get his arm out. Sometimes he gets the hiccups after he laughs.

He's also incredibly demanding. As in, I demand that you carry me constantly, don't even THINK about putting me in that bouncy chair for ONE SECOND or I will SCREAM my little lungs out! Do what he says, and no one gets hurt. No one's ear drums, that is.

But you can tell the world is opening up a bit for him. Last week Sawyer was running across our living room (which is maybe 5 steps for him) and crashing into a chair. Xander was totally watching him and cracking up. He makes eye contact with me from across the room. He's starting to notice the dogs.

Sometimes I wonder what he must think, with all the noise and craziness around him. Possibly that he's on a bad acid trip?

He looks neither exactly like Sawyer or Sage, but is a nice combo of both (except with hair). His temperment isn't as easy-going as Sawyer's was, nor is it as enraged as Sage's when they were babies.

He has delicious chubby thighs.

I took him for his 12-week checkup last week. He weighed 13 pounds, 11 ounces and was 24 inches. He's in the 60s as far as height/weight percentiles.

He has large hands.

I started to feel guilty that I haven't given him one second of official tummy time. So I did that Monday. I put him down on the pink rug in Sage's room. And he promptly rolled over. So I put him back, and he rolled again. Then I put him in my room, in front of the full-length mirrors on David's closet. And he rolled again. Hasn't done it since though. Guess he's not the trained monkey we'd hoped for.

He's started to cut his two bottom middle teeth. We can see the white bulges. Poor guy.

The biggest news of all, though, is that we are still successfully nursing. His pediatrician was thrilled by his growth and how healthy he looked. I'm just happy it's working. I am still not eating any dairy, soy or wheat and I'd be lying if I said this was easy. It isn't. It sucks. I'm exhausted and hungry all the time. And I'm beyond sick of eating turkey burger patties, sans cheese and bun.

I did have a little plain pasta the other day and he didn't explode, so I might gradually add some wheat in. We'll see. I don't want to get TOO crazy.

But I'm determined to stick it out as long as we can. When we're done, I will gorge myself on ice cream, pizza and chocolate. And that'll just be breakfast.

Oh, and the picture? I wish I had a great one to post of him on his three-month birthday. But hell, we forgot to take any. This one was taken a week and a half ago. Third child syndrome and all that.

Hey, we remembered to feed him and change his diaper and nobody drew on him with scented magic marker - it's a good day!

I Dare You Not To Smile

Who says wind chimes aren't hilarious??

I Cried at Target

I cried at Target today, and I wasn't even at the checkout counter shelling out another $50 for a bag full of crucial items such as Bakugans, fruit snacks and deoderant.

No, this was the good kind of cry. The kind that's stuffed with relief and the joy of endless possibility. And all of this was from a two-word text message sent by my husand.

A little background first: I weaned Sage at two months after I could not eliminate from my diet whatever offending food caused her green, bloody poops. She went on specialized, prescription-only formula until we put her on soy milk at a year. She did fine. But sometimes, after having dairy, she'd break out in a small patch of hives. I assumed some sort of allergy. It hasn't happened in over a year, and she has eaten yogurt, ice cream, cottage cheese and the occasional bottle of milk from Subway or McDonald's with no issues since.

Avoiding peanuts and tree nuts was not an issue. Because of Sawyer's severe allergy, we never have any in the house. I study all labels to make sure we don't even eat those products made on shared equipment with nuts (go ahead, look in your pantry. You'll be amazed by how much is made on shared equipment).

Sometimes they can't have a cake at a party if it comes from Costco, since it says on the label it contains nuts, or baked goods at a cookout if I can't interrogate the person who made it to see what's in the cookies or brownies.

I worry every day that something Sawyer will eat will kill him, and I always will worry until they come up with a vaccine. And I'm not being overdramatic. About 1 out of 25 kids have food allergies, according to the Food Allergy and Anaphylaxis Network, and the most likely to die from their allergy are those between 15-35 years old.

I didn't know about Sage. I just had her avoid stuff just like Sawyer, which wasn't that hard since we don't have it in our house. We assumed the allergy at her preschool so there were no nut products served for snack.

But I really needed to know. So being the perpetual mother-of-the-year candidate that I am, I finally got off my behind and made an appointment to get her tested for allergies. I should have done it at this time last year, before she started preschool. Just one more thing in my long list of shouldas. Sigh.

Anyway. I recently was tested, so I decided to have Sage see the same doctor. I told David he had to take her. Considering I cried last time Sage has a throat culture (granted, I gave birth the next day, so I might have been a touch hormonal), I didn't think I'd do well with her having to get a prick test - they poke you repeatedly with tiny needles to get the allergens in your skin. And if you're allergic to one or more of the serums, the itch is almost unbearable.

I didn't have high hopes for her behavior. This is the girl who screams when I get within two feet of her head with a hairbrush.

Today was the day. They left, with Sage having no idea what was in store for her. She knew only that she was going to be tested to see if she was allergic to peanuts and she seemed somewhat excited about it.

Turned out, they didn't do the prick test like they did with me. It was some sort of stamp, which caused no pain for her whatsoever. Meanwhile, I passed the time wandering around Target with a sleeping baby.

Waiting for news.

Finally, it came.

Two words.

no peanut

That was it. Two words that will change my little girl's life forever.

So I cried. Right there in front of the bikinis.

A whole new world just opened up for her. She will never have to worry that something she eats could make her sick - or worse. She can go have ice cream after soccer practice with her friends, and not worry about cross-contamination from the peanut fudge ripple. She can go to a restaurant and order what she wants with no fear that an almond might have gotten into her salad.

There will be plenty of things for me to stress out about when she's out on her own. Dying from eating a granola bar won't be one of them.

She proudly informed Sawyer when he got home from school today that she could eat peanuts.

He wasn't happy.

It wasn't malicious, obviously. I told him nothing would change at home. She would not be eating nuts here or anywhere near him, or when she was going to be seeing him. Our lifestyle as a family will remain the same.

There are enough things he can't have. Home should be where nothing is off-limits for him.

"Mommy, I just wish I could eat peanuts," he said.

"So do I. Every day I wish that for you," I told him. I also said they're working on a vaccine, so maybe someday he could eat peanuts without getting really sick. But maybe not.

It's not fair. Not at all. And it really, really sucks. So how do you explain that to a five year-old?

Not that we wish the allergy on anyone, but I'd heard there might be another peanut-allergic child in his kindergarten class next year. That would be good for Sawyer, to help him not feel so alone in this.

Don't get me wrong: he's a happy kid, and he eats plenty of great stuff. I expect him to live a long and happy life. It'd be fantastic if he didn't have the shadow of this allergy following his every step. But we'll deal with it. And hope that we give him the confidence - and the information on how to protect himself - so that he can always feel full.

The Harsh Reality

My trainer cancelled on me the other night. He claimed he got caught in traffic. But I think he really was nervous about transforming the blob that I am.

He rescheduled for the next night. So there I was, ready to take my first step in my long journey to get back in shape. Considering the last time I worked out with him I was in my first trimester and fresh off running a marathon, my current condition is quite disturbing.

I've got about 30 pounds to drop. It's going to take awhile.

Not only did I discover just how out of shape I am - my left side is now significantly weaker than my right - but I really realized how much work it's going to take to get anywhere near where I was before.

The worst part was when I was doing biceps curls. I was supposed to put my elbows tight against my body. And I kept knocking against my super-sized muffin top.

It's not a good look, people.

My trainer is a former Olympic athlete. He traines athletes, some at elite levels.

Then there's me.

He claims he's trained people who are worse off. He's a nice guy. And a liar.

I really need to commit myself to a new workout routine. Getting out for runs at 5:30 a.m., like I used to do, is out. I'm either nursing at that time or just getting back to sleep after nursing. So it's going to have to be at night, and frankly, I'm exhausted by 8 o'clock.

David and I talked about getting a treadmill so I can run when the baby is "napping" during the day. It would also be helpful if Xander would actually sleep in his carseat so I could take him for walks. Nothing says cathartic workout than a shrieking child, right?

Anyway, I will periodically update you all on my progress as I'm sure you're enthralled. Wish me luck! And will somebody PLEASE hide the potato chips!

The first time I ever got a pedicure I was already in my 20s. I was visiting my sister, who lived in Minneapolis at the time. We went to her shi-shi spa. The woman who was doing my nails was pregnant, and as she was trimming my cuticles, she looked up at me and said "My water just broke."

Now, being as I'd never had a child, I was sure the baby was going to pop out in the next 2 minutes (then again, that's kinda what happened when my water broke with Sage). But this woman was very calm. She stood up, quietly walked away to tell her boss, and then left.

The staff rushed over to offer us champagne to help us recover from the shock of such an occurence.

I believe it was a few more years before I ventured into another salon. Now, however, pedis are a regular part of my life. And I was very excited when I was pregnant with Sage and learned I was having a girl. Pedis! Shopping! Shoes!

Last weekend I decided I needed a little one-on-one time with her. Xander accompanies us wherever we go. And Sage had been litte Miss Sassy Pants lately, and had been wetting her bed A LOT, so I thought maybe a special outing would set us back on course.

It really is amazing how much a 3 year-old can hurt my feelings. Saturday morning our neighbor, who has three little boys, called to see if we wanted to go to some Boy Scout festival. David said he'd take Sawyer and Xander so that Sage and I could have our special morning together.

Sage started to cry because she wanted to go with the boys. When David pointed out that she was having alone time with Mommy, she shrieked "NO! I want to go with YOU!" and started crying. I think sticking a fork in her eye was more appealing than spending a morning with Mean Old Mommy.

I told her it hurt my heart that she didn't want to go with me. Miraculously, she relented, but only after I chlorformed her.

And she WAS excited when I brought her into the nail salon for the very first time. She didn't even mind that they kept us waiting 40 minutes (the place was packed, and I kinda get that they were taking women ahead of us who would be spending more money than we were, but it still pissed me off. I finally told the manager, "We WILL be next, RIGHT?!?!").

The thing is, I forgot to mention to Sage that she can't touch her nails for awhile after they were done. I mean, I've painted her nails at home and told her that, but it didn't really matter since I wasn't paying for that.

She rubbed off two of her fingers before the woman was finished with her toes. Then, after she was done, I tried to put her flip flops on. I was successful with the first, but with the second, Sage moved her foot and I smeared off the flower on her big toe. In her disappoinment, she stuck her thumb in her mouth - and yep, there went another flower.

Her big green eyes filled with tears and she started to cry. Even I felt bad. I believe my heart of stone might have even developed one teeny crack. The woman who'd done her nails was already working on someone else, but the sight up a little girl crying got the attention of all the customers - and the woman quickly fixed her nails.

Smiles all the way around.

Poor Sage. For the next four hours, she carefully kept her fingers fanned out so she didn't mar her nails.

The lesson? Beauty hurts. Both of us.

Living Proof

I have lived in Southern California for exactly 10 (TEN?!?!) years now, and yet, not once I have a felt a true earthquake - til last night.

David and I had finally gotten the kids to bed just past 8:30. We were in our bed, watching Extreme Home Makeover. Suddenly, our bed started to shake (and not THAT kind of shaking, if you know what I'm saying). David looked at me and said "It's an earthquake." And I looked at him, wondering if I should freak out.

By the time I decided not to, it was over. At some point during the 15 seconds or so that our house shook (it was a 4.7 on the richter scale), I did put a protective hand over the basinette next to our bed that contains our infant son. Apparently, I thought that would protect him from any flying objects, like a television or a dresser.

Xander slept peacefully through it. Sawyer and Sage, however, did not. Sawyer was standing in the hallway saying "I think something happened to my bed." David went to calm him - and to let the dogs in, as they were barking like crazy in the back yard.

I went in to Sage's room, to find her sitting up wide-eyed in bed. "Mommy! Somebody was bouncing on my bed!"

I explained to her that no, no one was bouncing on her bed. It was just this crazy thing where the earth moves and causes things to shake. I asked if she was scared and she said yes, but she seemed placated by my explanation and was soon back to sleep, as was Sawyer.

But today, when Sawyer and I walked to school, we discussed what an earthquake is. I asked him if it scared him, and he said it did.

"I thought it was a monster under my bed and it was shaking it."

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my child, who already has an overactive imagination (check out this link* to see what I mean) finally has living proof: There are, in fact, things that go bump in the night. And a monster under the bed to boot.


*That story is in my friend Jen's awesome magazine, Classic Play, a must-read for all moms out there!