the fourth house on the left

{catching up} farewell, mullet

2011-01-02T13:31:00.010-05:00

Connor was born with a full head of dark hair. After 11 1/2 months of growth, his baby mane was making a definite style statement: muttonchops are back in.

Except that they aren't.

So, we took him to my mom's stylist for his first haircut a few weeks before his first birthday.

We started with this-- a mullet in its full glory:

With the assistance of 5 adults, including a professional stylist {who, to my great relief, did not lose any fingers in the sometimes-harrowing process}...

...and lots of bottled water & cookies...

our shaggy baby emerged as a respectable little boy:

Connor did not cry & neither did I.

Nor did I save his hair in a little baggie.

He's had two haircuts since, and has consumed in the process approximately 7 snack-size {slightly hair-covered} chocolate bars, and at least half a dozen {similarly hair-covered} sugar cookies. Feel free to judge. But my kid doesn't sit still for carrot sticks.

{catching up} learning to walk

2011-01-01T20:04:00.004-05:00

Looking back, I can hardly recall a time when CP wasn't scrambling all about the house. At 15 months old, he's long since traded his penguin-like waddle for a full-on toddler run. As such, he has about as many facial bruises as you might expect would appear on a semi-blind, semi-drunk amateur stilt walker.

But, in fact, it wasn't all that long ago that our little nugget became uprightly mobile. Connor took his first lurching steps forward at exactly 11 months old, on August 29, 2010. It only took about 4 weeks to go from this:

note: no babies were harmed in the filming of this video, I promise.

and this:

to an independent explorer:

and brave ambulator:

With a little bit of direction & a lot of practice:

Connor shortly perfected the art of forward progress & added some fancy moves for style points:

At any given moment these days, you can find him (1) squeezing behind the living room gate ineffectively cordoning off the fireplace and TV wires; (2) turning on the cold water faucet in the bathtub; or (3) flushing every toilet in the house. He never. stops. moving. I follow behind, doing my best to save his beautiful face from the wrath of hidden hazards, documenting his steps, and beaming with pride.

{catching up} lee & matt get married

2011-01-01T14:49:00.003-05:00

Labor Day Weekend 2010: Shawn's brother Matt & his longtime love Leann finally tied the knot. During the entire wedding weekend, I managed to snap only this one shot of the happy couple: a blurry rendering of Matt and Lee practicing their vows during the rehearsal.

My dearth of documentation of the blessed event can be attributed to multiple factors, including lack of photographic skill {obviously}. But mostly, I chalk it up to the fact that for the duration of the rehearsal and the wedding I was: (a) six weeks pregnant, (b) foolishly teetering in three-inch high heels and spanx-ed into a size 6 sundress from my honeymoon, and (c) single-handedly responsible for wrangling this lunatic:

I managed to keep him off of the altar during matt & lee's vows, which was really no small feat. No sacraments were disturbed, despite Connor's mangling of the Holy Water font.

The ceremony was beautiful, even viewed from the confines of the {locked} cry room, and the reception was absolutely spectacular.

Lee was, unsurprisingly, a stunning bride. And Matt wore a tux.

My newest sister in law has been a fixture in Shawn's family since before Shawn and I started dating so she is hardly new to the family. She's the kind of girl who is so pretty you might want to wish her a stretch mark or two, but so kind and sweet that you never could. Whereas total strangers think that I may be a pregnant 40-something, Lee is often mistaken for the middle school students she teaches {although with many decades ahead of sleeping next to someone who refuses to repair his wheezing deviated septum, she's bound to get a few wrinkles eventually}. Needless to say, I won't ever be posing next to her in any Fenwick Island beach photos. In fact, I should probably refrain from taking any photos with her ever, really.

A rare exception: The bride & I at her bridal shower, July 2010.

We wish Matt & Lee a lifetime of happiness, filled with love, laughter, and beautiful blue-eyed babies! {on the latter subject: Lee, please note that your husband tried to feed Connor a whole grilled cheese sandwich when he was only 8 months old. When Shawn objected to the sandwich, Matt defended himself on the grounds that "it doesn't have ham in it." Good luck.}

{on turning 30}

2010-11-12T11:51:00.009-05:00

I'm 30 years and 4 days ~~old~~ ~~young~~ old.

So far, it feels a lot like writing checks on January 1st of a brand new decade. Date: January 1, 200... oh crap, new check. Is 2010 really here? It really exists? Do people even write checks anymore?

Not that anyone is really in the habit of asking me how old I am, but if someone should dare to ask {really, you shouldn't} I know that "twent.." will start to roll of my tongue before I train my mouth to accustom itself to starting that answer with "thirty" for the next ten years. Now that I think about it, the last time someone asked me how old I was, other than a doctor or other medical professional, was a woman in line with me at the downtown Rite Aid sometime in the summer of 2009. I was obviously pregnant with Connor, and was waiting to pay for my daily candy fix. The woman in front of me asked when I was due {normal}, whether I was having a boy or girl {normal}, then told me "it's so brave of you to have a child in your forties! how old are you?" {NOT NORMAL}. I choked a little, turned bright red, and mumbled something along the lines of "lady, I'm 28!!" To which she actually replied {REALLY NOT NORMAL} "oh, you look like you are in your forties. or maybe late thirties." My only choice here is to assume that this woman was either (a) completely out of her mind; (b) blind; (c) on some hard drugs; or (d) all of the above. The alternative is just too soul-crushing.

To celebrate the big 3-0 this year, I took the day off work {yay} and spent the day engaging in Thirty Random Acts of Kindness. Except that I sort of lost track of my list, and cannot entirely verify that I did thirty things precisely, but that's probably beside the point anyhow. {except that when I think about the fact that I was trying to do thirty things on my thirtieth birthday... thirty seems to be the entire point. oh well}. Among other things, I put Giant Eagle gift cards on car windshields, left other cars with notes wishing them a wonderful day, baked brownies for our postman, left a thank you note for the garbage men, taped 2 dollars to a vending machine, gave the YMCA babysitting girls batteries and a thank-you note, returned stray shopping carts in a Target parking lot, visited my grandma and brought her strawberry filled cookies. I did some things on my list more than once, but never made it to a few other things I'd planned out. By the end of the day, I realized that I'll probably never have time to do thirty random kindnesses again in a day, but I'll almost always have time to do one-- so I'm hanging on to the unchecked-items on my list, and doing them one by one each day.

In my twenies, I wore a lot of different hats & lived a lot of different lives.

At 20, I was a mostly-single college student. At 21, I triumphantly graduated summa cum laude and phi beta kappa from a school that had originally sent me a rejection letter, and left home for my Peace Corps assignment in Togo. I spent every day of my 22nd and 23rd years on the continent of Africa, promoting girls' education, tearing my hair out with frustration, meeting the best friends of my life, and sleeping every night from 7 pm til dawn. When I was 24, I came home, moved to Chicago, fell in love with Shawn, moved to New York City, and started law school. At 25, I was engaged, and was a new bride at 26. When I was 27, I graduated from law school, moved back to Pittsburgh with Shawn, passed the bar exam, and started practicing as a litigator at a large firm. At 28, I got pregnant, bought a 99 year old house, gutted and remodeled a large portion of the house, and had my first baby. At 29, I reveled in my role as a new mother, stumbled through the juggling excercise of work-life balance, and got pregnant for a second time.

In my thirties, I'm looking forward to putting down deeper roots, picking out the few hats I like best, and wearing the hell out of them. More time with Shawn, more babies, more making our house into a home. Now that I'm 30 I don't feel particularly, or suddenly, wise, but my twenties have taught me some good lessons and I'm at least the wiser for having run that crazy gauntlet.

And at the very least, I know enough not to ask any Rite Aid customers for their age.

{shaking hands & kissing babies}

2010-11-03T13:04:00.006-04:00

Well, election day is {finally} behind us! Hope everyone got to the polls yesterday. Like any good citizen, Connor voted early & often...first with my mom in the morning, then hitting the polls with Shawn and I in the evening.

I think the particular act of voting is exciting, but, in general, abhor politics. I don't believe a single thing that any politician says in a campaign, and resent being campaigned-to as if my brain has already been preserved in a jar of formaldehyde. I'm a registered Independent, and loathe both the the Republican and Democtratic parties for multiple reasons. As you might imagine, hating everyone and discounting everything that everyone says can make deciding who gets my vote a bit challenging.

Several weeks ago, at our town's fall festival, Congressman Jason Altmire's campaign team gave CP a balloon. Connor loved that balloon. So, I figured I'd vote for Jason Altmire.

Then, last week, Jason Altmire sent us a campaign brochure. CP picked it up off the couch, carried into the kitchen, and unceremoniously dumped into the trash. So, I thought- maybe not, Altmire.

The one thing I will sincerely miss about this election season: the nightly automated telephone calls to our home from the candidates. Shawn got in the habit of answering our home phone with an exuberant: "hello, Joe Sestak!" before he had any idea who was on the other end of the line. Shawn would talk-back to the automated messages until I was rolling on the floor laughing. Example:

{ring, ring, ring.... where's the phone?? oh, Connor hid it under the console table...}
Shawn: Good evening, Joe Sestak!
Candidate: Hi, this is Jason Altmire!
Shawn: Hi, Jason!
Candidate Hi, this is Jason Altmire!
Shawn: um, hello.
Candidate: Hi, this is Jason Altmire!
Shawn: Does this thing re-start every time I talk into the phone?
Candidate: Hi, this is Jason Altmire! I'm running for re-election because I'm just as disgusted with Washington as you are!
Shawn: Thank you for taking the time to get to know me and call me personally!
Candidate: As a member of Congress, I'll make sure to always listen to you.
Shawn: Jason, right now is not a good time-- I'm on the crapper.
Candidate: I ensured that the Mexican border fence was made with American steel, not Chinese!
Shawn: That is totally irrelevant. And again, I'm on the crapper.

Now the only phone calls we will get are ones from Verizon asking us if we want to upgrade to Fios.

{big news}

2010-11-01T11:14:00.011-04:00

So...it's been a slow two months of posting here at the fourth house on the left. I'm sure this has greatly disappointed my {single-digit} blog audience. Alternatively, you may not have noticed the blog silence at all, in which case I would gander that you find my life about as interesting as reading Chaucer. If you were sincerely disappointed by the non-posting, I do apologize; and if you didn't even notice, truly I can't blame you. I didn't notice, either.

So, why the dearth of chubby-cheeked photos and mildly humorous accounts of baby/toddlerhood? Well, I've spent the past 2 1/2 months trying not to barf during every waking moment, and promptly passing out for the night {in my work clothes} when I put Connor to bed at 8:30 pm. So, you can imagine that, along with a few other things {a groomed personal appearance, nightly toothbrushing, laundry, and any semblance of a professional work ethic} this blog was summarily abandoned for the duration. I suppose this is only a preview of what's to come, since {you may have guessed this}:

We are expecting baby #2 in late April!

Normally, my body-intuition is laughably incorrect {e.g. I was totally convinced that Connor was going to be a girl, and came within 2 clicks of purchasing the PBK Penelope bedroom set in anticipation of meeting a baby who I thought would be named Madeleine. When I found out at our 20-week ultrasound that CP was, in fact, CP, I forced a smile, then went out for Chinese food with Shawn and sobbed over wonton soup that I didn't even know my baby, what kind of a mother would I be?? Then I ate all my cashew chicken and half of Shawn's. And went to Coldstone for desert.} This time, however, I just knew that I was pregnant, and knew that I knew. Since I wasn't charting, I had only the vaguest general idea of when I could take a pregnancy test and expect a conclusive result. So, I just started peeing on a stick every day, sometimes twice a day. All of which were negative results. Shawn caught on to this after a few days and was like "uh, don't those things cost like $10 each??" To which I replied "um, no, they cost $8 each. honey." He asked why I couldn't just wait "like 2 more weeks, see what happens, then take one test." I told him that only normal people could do something like that, and he married a good old-fashioned-crazy, so the "wait and then test once" option was clearly not a possibility.

Undaunted by the 10 negative pregnancy tests I'd taken, I stopped by the Dollar Store one day after work and bought 7 more {much cheaper} tests. Five days {and 6 negative pregnancy tests} later, I was 98% convinced that, yet again, I was wrong and didn't know anything about my body. So, on the evening of August 15th, I drank a beer {oops, sorry baby}, talked to Shawn about how disappointed I was, then got ready for bed. On a whim, I decided to take the very last test. The second line didn't appear right away, and I was just about to toss it the test in the garbage, when I looked closer and saw the faintest pink line emerging from the white background. I ran down the stairs, waving the test and shouting to Shawn "do you SEE this LINE?!?!" He replied "yeah, i see one line." To which I countered: "no, not the line that's obviously a line, I'm talking about the line that is HALF IMAGINARY-- DO YOU SEE IT?" He refused to believe that there were two lines on the test. Luckily for me, I knew the internet was as full of the crazy as I was, so I did a quick Google Image search for "positive Dollar Store pregnancy test" and THOUSANDS of comparative images appeared. {yes, dear reader, thousands of women have, in fact, posted pictures of their dollar store pregnancy tests on the interwebs. There are even websites staffed by pee-stick gurus, wholly dedicated to pregnancy test analysis.} Shawn was still skeptical, but became a believer the next morning when a digital pregnancy test indisputably read "Pregnant."

I'm 15 weeks now, happy to be out of the first trimester, and I ate an entire 16 oz steak for dinner on Saturday.

{happy halloween 2010}

2010-11-01T09:05:00.009-04:00

Last year at Halloween, CP was only 4 weeks old. Our little pumpkin was barely bigger than a jack-o-lantern. He went trick-or-treating but, as far as I could tell, had no idea what was going on, and couldn't have cared less about this thing called "candy."

What a difference a year makes.

By the time trick-or-treating started this year, Connor had already eaten at least 3 kit-kat bars, and knew how to sort the good stuff (the reese's) from the merely mediocre candy (plain hershey's).

When he found out that he was going to have to share this bounty with the trick-or-treaters who came to the door, he did his best to scare the neighborhood away:

I wasn't sure what to expect from this year's trick-or-treating. I'd kind of anticipated that CP might spend about 10 minutes outside, visiting our next-door neighbors, then hanging out inside, watching the costumed kids from behind the glass storm door for the rest of the evening. CP totally blew those expectations out of the water. I should have known that any event would be a hit that involved (a) people loudly exclaiming how cute he was; and (b) giving him candy.

Our little frog liked to pick out his own candy-- waving the twizzlers wildly, giving the mike & ike's box a good shake, grabbing an entire handful of mini milky ways. Sometimes he would put the candy in his orange plastic pumpkin. Sometimes he would keep it grasped in his tiny fist. Sometimes he would slowly and indecisively select 3 different kinds of candy. Sometimes he would just stare, wide-eyed, until someone plopped a bag of mini-pretzels into his pumpkin bucket. Sometimes he would take a piece of candy, then re-gift a piece out of his pumpkin to the halloween hostess. Sometimes he would abandon his orange pumpkin and run away giggling and grasping a snickers bar. It was so much fun.

He only trick-or-treated about 4 houses away in each direction, but loved bopping around our driveway all evening, watching all of the older kids. He put his full prince-in-disguise frog charm on a 3 year old ladybug who wrapped her arms around Connor and exclaimed "he's just so cute!!!"

Unfortunately for Connor, we ran out of candy at 7:15... {this MAY be POSSIBLY related to the fact that Shawn and I single-handedly ate 2 bags of our reese's and a bag of kit-kats before any kids showed up at our house but this theory has not been tested in a double-blind peer-reviewed clinical trial so let's not jump to any conclusions}... so we had to give away the peanut's loot. Then we turned off our lights and hid in our house until 8:00 so as not to either (a) break the hearts of earnest trick-or-treaters arriving after 7:30 and/or (b) get our house bombarded with flaming toilet paper thrown by enraged, barely-costumed teenagers.

It was a good day.

{one year ago}

2010-09-30T05:53:00.029-04:00

One year ago, i woke up to my first morning as Connor's mom. I remember it all so clearly. By 'clearly,' of course, I mean that I recall various non-sequential snippets as seen through the fog of a morphine-induced haze. But, still, I remember it. My soul remembers the parts my brain can't re-process a year later.

I was lying in my hospital bed. Brand-new CP was swaddled in his footprint flannel blanket, dozing in the isolette to my left. Shawn was passed out on the daddy couch to my right, snoring away. Before dawn, Connor woke up, crying. Given that I had an abdomen full of staples, there was no way I could get out of bed to pick him up. Enter the dutiful partner. Who was still snoring. Could he not hear our baby crying? I wondered. I prompted him with a few subtle calls of "Shawn.... Shawn...Shawn....Shawn...SHAWN!!!!!" And nothing. "HEY GET UP OUR BABY IS CRYING!" I shouted with an effort that threatened to rupture some stitches. Still snoring. Then he stopped snoring, but didn't wake up. I was fairly certain he had died. Panicked, I threw the only projectile I could reach--the TV remote-- directly at his head. No reaction. So, my 7 hour-old baby was crying, and I appeared to have a dead husband. The day was getting off to a rocky start.

After 5 entire minutes of provoking him from Sleep/Death, Shawn finally awoke. Of course, I greeted him with something sweet and caring, along the lines of "what the hell is wrong with you???" to which he replied "I'm tired." I genuinely hope that one day {a long long long time from now} when I'm dead and God & St. Peter have set me up in my own personal heavenly home-theater to re-watch the entire tape of my life, I get a nice zoom-in on my face at that moment. I'm sure it was nothing but a kindly mask of compassion and understanding. Because, after all, Shawn had just physically endured 48 hours of forced hunger and thirst, 36 hours of labor, 2 failed epidurals, and a major surgery. Oh wait, no. That was me. Get up and get that baby.

Not that I didn't understand why he was so tired. When we both woke up bright and early two days earlier, Shawn and I were electrified by the notion that we would be meeting Connor. That Day. Or a little bit later, as it turned out.

Since I was ten days overdue and Connor showed absolutely no interest in changing residence, I was scheduled for an induction on Monday morning, September 28, 2009. I was under doctor's orders not to eat after 4 a.m. Monday morning. So, of course I set my alarm for 4 a.m. to get in one last meal. But, when 4 a.m. rolled around, I thought "eh, I'm not really hungry." And went back to bed. Now, I'm not big on regrets. In all my 29 years on this earth, I can count my regrets on two fingers. This is one of them. Sometimes I feel an actual physical urge to time-travel back to that 4 a.m. wake-up and scream to my unsuspecting self: GO EAT A HAMBURGER RIGHT NOW!!! But, alas, no such self-apparition from the future appeared to me that morning, so...regret it is.

On the way to the hospital, I was entirely pre-occupied by my fear of getting an IV. I've never been good with needles. During routine blood draws I usually throw such a fit that the phlebotomist gives me a Sesame Street band-aid afterwards and asks if I want a sticker {yes, i do, thank you.]. So, I decided my only option was to fake it 'til I make it-- I was going to nonchalantly PRETEND that I was completely impervious to the gut-wrenching fear and nausea brought on by needles. And, to my great shock, it worked. Now, the thing about being hugely pregnant in the summer is that it's quite easy to entirely lose track of things like your ankles, wrists, and fingers. The formerly delicate, bony joints get lost in a swell of puffy pregnancy bloat. So, the nurses tried about 6 times to find a vein in my sausage hands, to no avail, before finally calling in "the expert," who succeeded on her second try. All the while they were digging around, I was cool as a cucumber and everyone keep saying "wow, you're so tough! look at you!" Now, I'm almost positive these people changed their opinion of me about 30 hours later, but we'll get to that.

For the first couple of hours, I just waited for the induction agent to start some dilation. My nurse suggested using a foley bulb to augment dilation. I cannot believe I actually agreed to this, but I did. I sincerely hope that Mr. Foley {and yes, I am positive the inventor had to be a man} is currently writhing in eternal torment, having a Foley bulb applied perpetually to his own nether regions.

After the foley bulb, the nurse increased the dose of Pitocin to strengthen my contractions. Not too long afterwards {like maybe 15 seconds} I requested the epidural. I was delivering Connor at the region's premier women's teaching hospital, so I was prepared to meet some nursing students, residents, etc. during my labor. However, I made it clear from the start that I don't want anyone coming near my spine with a 10 inch needle unless he or she is a board-certified anesthesiologist. With 30 years' experience. And Harvard Med credentials. So, of course, Magee sent me a girl wearing a bandana who appeared to be 12 years old. She explained that she was some sort of nursing technical student and would be "assisting" the doctor with my epidural. Holding still in a cross-legged position during these contractions was challenging, but no big deal. The epidural went in without a hitch, Shawn didn't faint at the sight of it, and all seemed well. Within a few minutes, everything below my waist was comfortably numb. Shawn and I settled in for an evening of waiting and relaxing.

Around 2 in the morning, I started to feel pain again. Around 3 in the morning, I was convinced something had gone awry with the epidural, so I paged the nurse. She seemed to think I was overreacting. Over the next 15 hours, I kept paging people, telling them that this epidural was not working. People kept thinking I was overreacting. A parade of anesthesiologists came in, looked at the dosage, increased it... all to no avail. Meanwhile, CP's heart rate kept dipping due to the max dosage of Pitocin coursing through me and squeezing him unrelentlessly. The doctors placed a monitor on his head, and we were continuously worried about him. Meanwhile, dilation continued, very very slowly. For much of this time, I was writhing in bed, while Shawn did his best to remind me to "breathe." {p.s., dear reader: lamaze classes are a waste of time}. Finally around 5 or 6 p.m., some genius board-certified Harvard-credentialed anesthesiologist actually looked at the epidural site, and declared "oh, it fell out." The epidural had been pumping all the medicine into my sheets for hours.

At this point, I was 32 hours into labor, 8 cm dilated, on the maximum dose of the devil's own Pitocin, starving and thirsty, in transition, with no epidural. I totally lost my mind. It didn't hurt any more than it had 2 minutes earlier; after all, nothing had changed. However, I could not believe that after starving me, wearing me down for a day and a half, and amplifying the pain x1000 with pitocin, these doctors were going to have me finish the job au naturel. So, I started screaming. Various combinations of the word "no" and every swear word I have ever heard, along with a generous and hearty repetition of "I CANNOT DO THIS!" Surely, other women in labor heard me and had panic attacks. Probably people in other ZIP codes heard me and had panic attacks. I was inconsolable in my pain, which was fueled now by sheer rage. It was probably the kind of extended outburst that you don't see much outside of a psych ward. A dozen people were in my room. One kind nurse tried to assure me that I could do this because "you've already come this far!" I told her, to her face, that she was full of shit, and that I could not be pacified by such meaningless platitudes.

Anesthesiology was called to attempt a second epidural. The girl with the bandana walked two steps into my room before I screamed "not you! get the hell out of here!" Regardless, the second epidural never fully took. At this point, it had been 24 hours since my water broke, and the window for safe delivery was pretty much closed although I was still not fully dilated and Connor's head was not fully engaged. A new OB {thank God} finally came on shift, and she advised us that a c-Section was our best option at this point. I tearfully agreed, and though I was scared of having my first surgery, I mostly felt relieved.

Once we decided to have a c-Section, things kicked into high gear as people started prepping me for surgery, and handing out scrubs to Shawn. When I got to the OR, the doctors actually wanted me to transfer myself from the gurney to the surgical table. I was like "wait, are you kidding? You just gave me a spinal & i can't feel anything below my chest. You're going to have to un-beach this whale on your own, guys."

After I was numbed up & Shawn was sitting at my head, I heard a little Connor cry, in no time at all. He was born Tuesday, September 29, 2009 at 8:52 p.m., weighing 8 pounds, 11 ounces, and measuring 22 inches long. He sounded like a baby kitten. The nurses wrapped him up & handed him to Shawn. I caught a glimpse of his puffy little newborn face, but had a hard time focusing, since a doctor was standing at my head, jabbing pain meds and anti-nausea drugs into my chest at 1 minute intervals. At the end of the surgery, the doctors asked if I wanted to hold Connor as they wheeled me back to my room. I couldn't feel my arms yet, so I didn't trust myself to hold onto such precious cargo.

When I arrived in the recovery room, I demanded some grape juice. I have never been so thirsty in my entire life. The nurse told me that I couldn't have any liquids for several hours, in case it made me nauseous. I think I started laughing like a hyena at that point, in my drugged-up haze. After all this, I'd take the risk of throwing up, thank you very much. Get me the juice. I demanded approximately 22 dixie-cup juice refills in a row, before regaining enough strength to finally hold baby Connor in my arms for the first time. I don't remember what I said, or how long I held him. I only remember a sense of sheer amazement, that this was the little guy I had gotten to know over the last 9 months. Here he was, blinking his bold dark eyes at me, rooting around with his tongue, taking the world in one long glance at a time.

A year later, the amazement hasn't worn off. It still washes over me in waves at a time. When I see my handsome 30 pound nugget walking down the hallway grinning from ear to ear and tugging on his birthday balloons, I can hardly believe this is the same baby who had monitors glued to his scalp just a year ago.

We're still amazed, still very tired, and still very much in love with our little Connor. What a great year it's been.

and i thought i didn't understand statistics

2010-09-22T14:05:00.004-04:00

It's after 2 pm and I'm sitting in my office chair, vacillating between intense hunger pangs and a deep & abiding laziness that prevents me from actually walking down the street in search of some lunch. I'm complicated. Or just that lazy. I'll let you decide. But probably keep the verdict to yourself.

So, in lieu of actually eating anything, I opened up this blog. And, for the first time noticed a little tab in my Blogger window that says "Stats." The existence of such a blogger feature is surely not news to anyone with observational powers keener than those of an elderly, cataract-ridden pet. But, to me? News. So, i clicked on the tab, only to find that Google, blessed Google, tracks all kinds of information about my blog-- who's reading, how they got here, what their ATM PIN numbers are {just kidding. i think. at least i haven't noticed a tab for that one yet}.

So, I would like to give a big shout out to my readers in Canada, India, China, Colombia, Denmark and Hong Kong. I have no idea how you got here. How did you get here?

Also, whoever found my blog by Googling "forth house on the left" and "fourth house of the left" should either (a) take a long, hard look at the all-caps blog title at the top of this page, or (b) lay off the sauce when using the computer. You know who you are. I don't know who you are, but you do. If you are one of the blog readers from China, Colombia, Denmark or Hong Kong, I'll cut you some slack. If you are {as I suspect} my dad, I am not surprised.

Interestingly, 2 separate people found this blog by googling "the holy roller's poop looking" Way to focus in on the key words there.

Also, my dear friend Google tells me that I am the only person thus far who has looked at this blog today, so I don't expect this message to get around like wildfire.

But if it does, Google will know. And I will be watching. Goodnight, Denmark!

letter to connor {11 months} or: this one goes to eleven*

2010-08-31T18:47:00.010-04:00

CP-

Yesterday, when I got to the office, my voicemail button was blinking. I rolled my eyes, drew a deep breath, forgot my voicemail password, remembered my voicemail password, and pressed "3" to listen to my new message. The operator told me that I received a new message at 7:30 a.m. I wondered who could be so obnoxiously ambitious on a Monday morning. As the message began to play, I heard some breathing, then beeping noises-- clearly the caller was dialing a number while on my voicemail. At first, I suspected spam telemarketing. Next, I thought it was some kind of heavy-breather prank call. Then, my mind briefly ran down a list of partners and senior associates who might be so blundering as to leave such a message. Finally , between the beeps of pressed keys, I heard "gak! gawk! gook!"

It was you, calling me from your dad's cellphone.

I listened to the whole 5 minute message, which took up my entire inbox time allowance. Thanks for calling. Definitely the best voice mail I've ever gotten.

I started this letter to you on August 31st, which is only 2 days after your 11-monthday.

Now, it is September 20th, and you are going to be one in 9 days.

So, this letter is a bit late.

But, better late than never.

Right after you turned 10 months old, your father and I finally decided it was time to acquaint you with your exceedingly expensive teething toy-- also known as the Pottery Barn Kids Kendall Crib sitting in your nursery. Up until this point, you'd taken occasional {brief} naps in the crib, but still slept with us at night. For the most part, this meant that one of us had to go to bed whenever you did. Which, by the way, was whatever time you felt like it. Often as late as 10:00. Sometimes later. We had no "bedtime routine" other than "he doesn't look tired yet....nope, still not tired....still awake.... bath.... still awake...snuggle in bed....endure headbutting...watch as you climbed our headboard....still awake... still awake....storytime....still awake....then finally off to dreamland at an absurdly late and unpredictable hour. You'd spend the night thrashing about, terrorizing your father and I until we had been gouged, kicked, and slapped into submission along the mattress edges. Sometimes you would cuddle with me, in the crook of my arm, which was breathtakingly sweet. But mostly you just tried to pull my eyelashes out.

So, it was time for a change.

We decided that we needed a bedtime routine. 8:00 bath, then nighttime diaper and jammies, followed by a good-night bottle and story time in our bed, then an 8:30 bedtime in your crib. I braced myself for the backlash. We decided in advance that we were definitely not going to let you "cry it out" alone in your nursery, but would rub your back and soothe you while you were in the crib, without lifting you out. That way, you would know you were not alone and that your crib was a safe place for you to sleep. You caught on like a champ. You do resist & cry occasionally, but not often. More often than not, I lay you in the crib, then lay down on your rug. You follow suit, and stick your chubby little arm out of the crib slat to hold my finger, and drift off to sleep through your babbles and giggles. You don't always sleep through the whole night, but can usually be reassured with a simple pat on the back and a whispered "Connor, I'm here." In the mornings, you get up {early. so early} sometime between 5:15 and 6:15. We know you are "up for the day" when we hear you talking in the crib, announcing your wakefulness with a series of "gak! gak.... gak!" proclamations until I plod down the hallway, open the nursery door, and see you standing in the crib, smiling and squinting in the new light. You bounce with excitement at the prospect of a new day. It's impossible not to smile in return. The morning experience could only be improved if PotteryBarn Kids invented a crib that was also a babyproof latte dispenser.

Although it is hard for me to believe, you are often mistaken for a girl. Nevermind the fact that 99% of what you wear is unmistakable "boy" clothing. I'm not really sure what is wrong with people, but I was under the impression that there was some kind of social compact whereby, if you come across a baby dressed in a navy polo shirt and truck-embroidered courduroy pants, if you are still on the fence as to the baby's gender YOU SHOULD GUESS BOY. I mean, I dont' want to peg baby wardrobes into particular genders. If you are the proud parent of a lovely baby girl and want her to wear navy polos and truck pants, I think you should do so. But surely THE VAST MAJORITY of babies dressed in such fashion are going to be boys. And yet. And yet. Well, usually these encounters go something like this:

Passerby unaware of social compact: "oh, she's so sweet! look at those cheeks!"
Me: "Thanks. He's a boy. His name is Connor."
Passerby: "Oh. what a doll."
Me: polite smile. semi-restrained eyeroll.

The script goes quite differently, of course, when your confrontation-averse father is out with you.
Elderly grocery store cashier: "Oh, she's so sweet! Look at those cheeks!"
Shawn: "Thanks."
Old lady cashier: "So, what's her name?"
Shawn: "Uh, Michelle."

So, now we can't go back to our neighborhood grocery store.

Your unbelievable cuteness has not diminished a bit. There is a 20-something girl in our neighborhood who I know only as "the dog girl." She has a small ugly dog named Guenevere. Once she called the dog "a dog" in its presence then apologized to the dog, explaining that "Gwennie doesn't like being called a dog!" This self-averse pooch is the proud owner of a $600 bugaboo baby stroller and is regularly walked by her owner who wears $350 Christian Louboutain 4 inch stilettos for their outings. Suffice it to say I used to think this girl was a total loon. But she has totally redeemed herself by referring to you, always, as "the cutest baby in the world." She walks past in her designer footwear with that pitiful dog every day and calls out "how's the cutest baby in the world doing?!" Even the crazies know you're cute. Even if they don't know you're a boy.

Well, at 11 months, you are in love with the word "gak." You love to dance to banjo music. You still hate almost all food {although nobody believes me on this one in light of your physique}. You cruise and crawl with wild abandon and love when your dad chases you. You're desperate to figure out how to open the babyproofing staircase gates. You've definitely outsmarted the 'under the kitchen sink' lock more than once.

You grow our hearts every day, and we love you so much CP.

Love,
Mommy

* no, I have not actually seen the Spinal Tap movie. I have not stayed awake for an entire feature film since sometime in the late 1980s.

{yes, my child is joyfully running on an Eat n Park sidewalk barefoot}

{three years ago today}

2010-08-18T22:20:00.003-04:00

happy anniversary.

thanks for making me laugh every day of the last three years.

it just keeps getting better.

{holy shit}

2010-08-13T13:13:00.005-04:00

I know. I swore. In the post title. My mother in law is gasping in horror. I'm sorry.

But if there ever were an occasion for the phrase "holy shit" {and if you've ever attended a Gallagher Christmas Eve dinner you know there are many} then this is The Appropriate Use of The Phrase.

My mom wears a miraculous medal of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

Connor ate it.

Now you'll have to excuse me while I go sift through the holy roller's poop looking for the Mother of God.

water baby {fenwick island 2010}

2010-08-11T10:54:00.019-04:00

vaction is a time for...

seeing the ocean for the first time.

...exploring a new frontier.

...feeling the wet sand squish between your toes.

...relaxing with the shade seekers.

...brushing up on your mousketools.

...making early gradeschool alliances.

...hanging ten.

...naptime anytime.

...really thinking hard about all of the weird stuff that people are inclined to buy when away from home.

...enjoying ice cream at 10 a.m just because.

...applying sunscreen liberally.

{last known sighting of shawn's wedding ring before it got swept into the watery depths of the atlantic, where it surely joined the claddagh ring i lost 20 years ago, a mere 7 minutes after my parents bought it for me }

...preparing for one's future as a rugby player.

...hitting crabs with a mallet.

...letting the work emails pile up unread in your blackberry.

...big families getting together.

...keeping up family traditions like early morning bike rides from the rehoboth boardwalk to the henlopen acres wall. which everyone clearly enjoyed very much. yay, memories!

...two nine hour car rides and Bay Bridge traffic...

...which are worth it, for this: just being together.

letter to connor {10 months}

2010-08-04T17:33:00.009-04:00

my sweet little peanut-

You are 10 months old! Lately, you seem so much less like a little baby and so much more like a little boy.

You like to feed yourself, all by yourself. You hold your bottle by yourself {you've been doing this for months, actually}. You chomp on teething biscuits with wild abandon, to our great choking-hazard terror {yes, that is the reason that i took it upon myself to eat them all myself}. You pinch a single cheerio between your chubby little finger and thumb, then shove your fist in your mouth and happily store half a dozen soggy cheerios in your chipmunk cheeks before finally swallowing. You still hate purees, but I'm beginning to realize that's because you'd rather take charge than be spoon fed. Clearly an attribute of a strong leader. And a recipe for a messy dining room.

You can read! Sort of. You love your many, many books. Occasionally you "read" them, hooting and goo-ing and gagaga-ing at every page, as you turn {and tear} the pages one by one. Usually, though, you eat them. And then throw them on the floor. of course. It blows my mind when I see you actually lift the peek-a-boo flaps, or pat the doggy fur, or chuckle with delight when the old lady swallows a fly/mouse/cat/dog/horse.

You get into.every.thing. Your curiosity is insatiable. Our first attempts to childproof the house were a major fail, as I can now no longer figure out how to open the recycling cabinet and the cabinet under the sink. Nothing makes you feel like a genius quite like the inability to defeat safety devices made for children under 18 months of age.

You are definitely growing up, nugget. Somewhere between 9 months and 10 months, you developed a real "personality." And by "personality," I mean of course that your father and I are now bracing ourselves for the inevitable reality that, in only a few short years, you will absolutely, definitely, attempt to set off fireworks in your room.

I can't wait to see all of the {crazy} things you do between now and then. And in the meantime, I'll be increasing our homeowner's insurance coverage.

i love you, cp.

Mommy

{hey mr. tambourine man}

2010-07-22T10:21:00.004-04:00

happy jingle-jangle morning, peanut.

{wordless wednesday}

2010-07-21T15:32:00.002-04:00

{mary, mary, quite contrary}

2010-07-16T00:25:00.014-04:00

how does your garden grow?

silver bells and cockle shells & pretty maids all in a row.

or: reckless planting of organic seeds, sporadic watering, and one very curious squash explorer.

sometimes nursery rhymes are full of it. a life lesson.

connor, write that down.

after you take your fingers out of the socket/fan/door hinge/oven/dishwasher/radiator.

letter to connor {9 months}

2010-07-14T13:16:00.040-04:00

chief peanut-

I'd like to say that I deliberately wrote this 9 month post several weeks late in a sort of symmetrical homage to your unusually long, a-few-weeks-past-9-months gestational period. {You know, that time when I was on pre-delivery maternity leave, having completely lost track of the location of my ankles and getting plumper by the day, while waiting and waiting for your late arrival?} But, no, this 9 month letter is getting written just 2 weeks shy of your 10 month-day {what?!} because I have approximately 7-10 seconds of free time per day during which I could update this little blog. But, better late than never! {I mean, you were quite tardy yourself, and we think you turned out pretty great}.

So, big changes since last month. When you were 8 months old, your father and I were like "Isn't this easy!? Let's have 10 more immediately! People are so over-dramatic when they say that having a baby is exhausting!" Then... IT happened.

You figured out how to move.

Like, we put you down, and you don't stay where we put you.

Jeebus, save us.

You first squeaked your chubby knees across the dining room floor on Father's Day-- more of a very slow, lumbering reflection on "the idea of moving forward" rather than an actual crawl. But over the next few days, you picked up speed and coordination and are now expertly mobile, if still a bit Godzilla-like in your four-legged progress. Your curiosity is insatiable, and seems to be directed exclusively at things that can (a) electrocute you; (b) pinch off your fingers; and/or (c) cause irreparable damage to your still-forming skull. {sidenote: you also really wish I'd let you play with the camera}

Within 10 seconds of figuring out how to crawl, you subsequently discovered the marvel of pulling up to standing. On everything. I'm reconsidering my previous objections to your father's wishes to wrap you up in bubble-wrap foam for the next few years.

This month you've also started to demonstrate a much stronger personality than the placid Connor of yore. And by "stronger" I mean: you are a biter. You love biting people. We are going to have to work on that before preschool. When you bite me on the shoulder and I look you in the eye and say, in a low voice, "Connor, no biting," you just laugh in my face and lunge forward, mouth agape, to sink those six pearly whites deeper into my t-shirt. You like to play rough with your dad. When you "play" slap him in the face, your dad makes the "smack" sound effect, which you find endlessly hilarious. I really hope our vision insurance plan covers annual eyeglass replacement. And possible eyeball replacement. You are of the opinion that eye gouging is fair game:

You are a huge flirt. You thrive off of others' praise for you and their interest in your adorable cheeks. Often, you catch sight of a stranger before they notice you, and you pre-emptively smile, turn on your twinkle eyes, and giggle, until they notice you {and, with the exception of one very very serious lady in church, inevitably exclaim profusely over your cuteness}.

You shake your head "no," until you're dizzy and laughing.

Your first word was "Handoyo." Yes, I know this is not a "real" word, but it is the last name of my college roommate. You mutter "doyo, doyo, Handoyo" all day long.

You say "dadadadadadadeee" quite often, but only occasionally in reference to your father, and usually in reference to something like the toaster.

We're pretty sure that you've also said "good God!" and "dirty!"

Mostly, though, you prefer to "rev your engine" with forceful, guttural exhortations of a solid consonant, like "gggggggggggggggggggggg!" --while you pump your fists in front of you, or ferociously wave an object {like a wooden spoon} up in the air.

You usually love your bottle. Always love some ice cream. Occasionally tolerate purees. And never want to see a bread crumb laid out on your high chair tray ever again. We cannot figure out why, when you put EVERYTHING ELSE in your mouth {including shoes, despite our vigorous protests}, you absolutely refuse to put real, solid food in your mouth. You pick up little food chunks and unceremoniously drop them onto the floor, or vigorously wipe them off the table with a rapid windshield-wiper motion until they are flung to the farthest recesses of the dining room floor.

You love swimming. Just the other day, I looked into buying a fun little floatie device for you that we could use in the pool at the beach. The product description read "for babies 9 months and older." Great! I thought to myself. My kid is 9 months old! Just old enough! But before I plunked down the $29.95-- I read on.

Weight Limit: 28 lbs.

Seeing as you weighed in at your 9 month appointment at a stupendous {possibly regional record-setting} 28 lb 11 oz, you'd be about as bouyant as a brick in that thing. So, your tan little legs will be making waves sans infant floatation devices this summer. Which is just fine by you.

You still sleep with us at night. During the night, you roll right to left, headbutting your father and I until we are each occupying approximately 6 square inches of mattress, and you are spread out horizontally across the width of the queen size bed. I'm pretty sure you are expecting your first "big boy bed" to be a California King.

We wake up every morning to your sweet face. Sometimes you wake up crying. Sometimes you wake up laughing. Sometimes you try to rip your dad's nose off while he is still asleep. Mornings with you are the best.

You have no idea why we spent hundreds of dollars on a Pottery Barn Kids crib {neither does your father} since you have absolutely no intention of ever sleeping in one. Or, really, staying in one for more than 6 minutes. Was $400 too much to spend on a teething toy?

You love watching the garbage trucks come up our street on Monday mornings. And yes, you even get the waste management employees to wave and smile at you.

You're the best kid in the world, cp. We can't wait to see what you do next.

Love

Mommy

now, back to work.

{mr. and mrs.}

2010-07-07T13:15:00.017-04:00

My little brother is...married?!?!! what??? In my mind, he is still the skinny little 9 year old {ok, 15 year old} who shoved peas and grapes up his nose with alarming regularity. but now, he is someone's HUSBAND. {who, for all i know, still shoves grapes and peas up his nose}

photo credit for this amazing shot goes to Deiter Wiselogel, Laura's boyfriend

A few weeks ago, Lizzy flew cross-country out to our neck of the woods and we showered her with love & pottery barn kitchenware {wait, aren't those the same thing?} Our neighbor Mary eschewed the longstanding tradition of elegant gift wrap in favor of enough masking tape to protect the enclosed dishware from armageddon itself.

All of our decor was southwestern & red & blue, in keeping with the couple's july 3 arizona ranch wedding. In exchange for a 6 pack of a micro brew, shawn spent hours stamping and circle punching little "E" medallions {what a guy}. I, for one, learned the hard way that the glue gun manufacturer was not joking when it stamped its product with a sticker reading "will burn flesh." I spent the next three weeks typing 2-fingered {very slowly} at work as a result of that little "life lesson."

The party planning committee & the bride-to-be.

Hugh calls Lizzy "peanut," and of course we also call Connor that. However, it should be apparent that the moniker is far more appropriate for Hugh's petite little bride {please see photo above, wherein I, at a quite average 5'7" look like some sort of hulking polka-dotted giant by comparison} than for our enormous infant {who appears to be on track to reach 7 ft tall, 800 pounds}.

Connor enjoyed playing with the balloon I took home, and enjoyed eating several pieces of the tinsel-wrapped balloon weight before I realized what he was up to.

So, last Tuesday we packed up Connor and flew out to Arizona, which was surprisingly easy.

Moments after touching down in Tucson, Shawn located the nearest In n Out Burger, using nothing but his own fast-food intuition. It was kind of scary. And kind of impressive.

Since we arrived on Tuesday night, we took a few daytrips in the days leading up to the Big Event. On Wednesday we drove to Nogales. Here's how much Connor enjoyed that:

While in the.. uh, lovely.. border town of Nogales, I came within one u-turn of inadvertently crossing the border. I was driving {first mistake} and Shawn and I were reassuring each other, half-jokingly, that it could not be possible to accidentally drive to Mexico. Then, on a whim, I looked at a small sign that I was thisclose to passing by.. and to my horror, saw that it said "last u-turn before Mexico." Thankfully, I jerked the wheel to the left and didn't have to explain to my brother why a bridesmaid, a groomsman & an honorary ring bearer couldn't make the wedding because they were stuck in Mexico without travel documents.

Connor had significantly more fun at a wacky sort of cafe we stopped at in Patagonia, where he enjoyed the centerpieces mightily. And by enjoyed, I mean, of course, that he tore them to shreds.

We really loved having breakfast at Millie's. For one thing, they open at 6:30. Which is really nice when you've traveled across three time zones and your 9 month old thinks it's time to get up at 4:15 am. All of the ladies there were really sweet, and remembered Connor's name. And the regular patrons didn't seem to mind too much when Connor starting hooting like an owl at ear-piercing decibels.

Shawn and I have discovered that, when in a restaurant with Connor, we just have to keep feeding the beast. Whatever it takes to keep him occupied and relatively calm. To that end, we discovered that he really digs taking shots of coffee creamer. He opens them like a human Keurig-- piercing the tops with his sharp teeth, then draining out the cream.

On Thursday, we drove up the winding mountain road to the top of Mt. Lemmon. At the base of the mountain stands an army of desert cacti, standing sentry, with arms raised in a perpetual salute to their ancient roots.

As you travel up the mountain, though, the cacti and the 100 degree heat give way to a 65 degree coniferous forest that more resembles Canada than the southwest. Burned out silhouettes mark the path of wildfires, and signs warn of the dangers of bears. seriously, bears. I doubt they make their way into town very often.

Hugh & Lizzy got married at the Tanque Verde Ranch, which was really fantastic.

Connor put on his party shirt for the rehearsal. It was a hit, but didn't last long, though, since he dumped my rehearsal-dinner margarita all over himself. The rehearsal dinner in the cottonwood grove was fantastic, although I spent the evening wrangling my tequila-soaked baby and shuttling food to Shawn, who was near death with heatstroke/sinus infection back in our cabin.

Then it was the Big Day.

Wedding photos courtesy of the very talented Vickie Lan {who little Jack crushed on big time, asking repeatedly throughout the reception, "where is the vickie!?"

The groomsmen decided to take a "tough guy" sunglasses photo... only Shawn didn't have any sunglasses. So my dad lent him his. You know, the big orange ones that snap-on over your glasses. With the "uv protection" stickers still prominently displayed on the lenses.

The wedding was perfect, in the way that weddings should be perfect. Not everything went according to plan. The bride found out the hard way that a cathedral length veil makes an excellent horse fly trap, and the unity candle wouldn't light on account of the wind. But none of that really mattered. The ceremony was beautiful, and would have been if they had gotten married in a fluorescent-lit city hall office rather than against the backdrop of a gorgeous desert sunset. Because it is impossible to dull down the beauty of two people clearly meant for one another pledging their lives to each other.

There's no way to remember everything about a wedding {or any event, really}. So, I try to take just a handful of mental pictures, or short video clips in my head, when I really want to remember something. In 20 years, when I can't remember what Hugh & Lizzy's first dance song was, or what color bridesmaid dresses we wore, or the name of the ranch, I know I will remember 2 things from their wedding. 1) The first time I saw Hugh's wedding ring reflecting the Arizona sunset as he lit {well, attempted to light} the unity candle; and 2) watching a big fat bumble bee land in Lizzy's bouquet and knowing that her mother was blessing this perfect union from above.

Congrats, little bro. It's a brand new day.

{a whole new world}

2010-06-23T23:16:00.004-04:00

The American Academy of Pediatrics recommends starting your baby on chocolate peanut butter cup ice cream at 8 months.

Oh wait, they don't?

Well, they should. It is awesome.

Summer is here, and so are evening walks to the confectionery. Did we really buy a house that's 200 yards away from an ice cream store? pure genius.

Did I really think that I'd be able to carry the grabbiest human alive in my Moby wrap without sharing at least half of this ice cream cone? pure folly.

{happy father's day!}

2010-06-20T16:18:00.010-04:00

CP-

Today is father's day & we're celebrating your dad (and by "celebrating," i mean that he is outside mowing the lawn in the sweltering heat, while I'm drinking coffee and you are chewing on everything in the house).

I'm sure you will come to know all about your dad, over time, but--just in case it's not obvious-- I want you to know what kind of dad you have. You've got one of the good ones.

Let's start with what he's not. He's not one of those "strong and silent" reclusive types. He's never going to play mind games with you. He's never going to withhold his affection, or make you think that you aren't good enough. He can't be any of these things because he's crazy about you, and couldn't be prouder to call you his son. And it shows, every day. In the little things. And the big things.

He was the first person to hold you when you made your grand entrance into the world more than 8 months ago.

He cuts your fingernails and toenails {and was angst ridden for a week the first time he nipped a little corner of your finger in the process}.

He stays home with you on Mondays & Fridays.

He's the expert at coaxing your chubby arms through sleeves.

He can make a bottle of formula one handed while juggling a 30 pound pinching, biting gorilla {that's you} in the other.

He's very protective of you. He looked at me in horror the first time {under my supervision} you tipped over backwards and bumped your head. Nevermind that you "fell" from a distance of about 5 inches, and you were sitting on the carpet. If he had it his way, you'd be wrapped in protective foam for the next 18 years {minimum}.

He's proud of himself when he makes a basket in your "basketball" hoop; nevermind that it's a game calibrated for 12 month olds.

He loves lists. He makes lists for everything. He's even got a list indexing his lists. Before you were born, he had a list of things he wanted to do with you.

Last summer, while we were waiting for you to arrive, he spent countless hours in the backyard ripping each weed out by hand because he didn't want to use any chemical pesticides on your future playground.

He's got an uncanny ability to impersonate Mickey Mouse {hot dog!}, which you love {and in a few years, if you still love Mickey, he will take you to the 9th circle of hell--also known as Disney World-- just because it makes you happy}.

After you swiftly chomped a teething biscuit into two mighty choke-able pieces a few weeks ago, I put the box of biscuits in the pantry, writing them off as a total waste. When, on whim, I pulled the box back out weeks later to give the biscuits a "second chance," I discovered that your father had eaten all but two of them. I think this can be attributed in equal measure to: (a) his abhorrence of wasting food; and (b) his love of all things resembling cookies.

You don't and won't need any reminder that he'd do absolutely anything for you.

& we love him very much.

Here's a little look back for Shawn's first Father's Day. Make sure your volume is turned on. This is by no means an artistic masterpiece, as I have no idea how to use photo editing/movie making software {yet}, but at least nothing is upside down or muted {i hope}.

xoxoxo SPS-- happy father's day!

{you're not touching my apricot popsicle. unless it's for a refill}

2010-06-04T00:28:00.007-04:00

letter to connor: by the numbers {8 months}

2010-06-03T23:11:00.005-04:00

8: number of months old you are.
4: sharp little teeth in your mouth.
7: ounces of formula in each bottle you drink.
6: number of bottles you hold all by yourself every day.
42: approximate number of ounces of formula you drink every day.
32: recommended daily maximum number of ounces of formula.
26 1/2: what you weigh, in pounds, as a result.
19: average weight, in pounds, of an 8 month old.
3: number of pounds by which you exceed the weight of my co-worker's 3 year old.
9: approximate number of diaper changes you go through per day.
9: approximate number of times you cry on the changing table until you get to hold the lotion bottle.
1: number of times you've gotten poop in your own hair.
7: weeks of swimming lessons completed by our little shrimp kipper.
5: weeks your stuffed & runny nose has dragged on, poor baby.
175: number of people it would require to hold down a 26 pound baby in order to administer eyedrops.
2: number of people actually administering said eyedrops.
90: approximate failure rate percentage, unsurprisingly. you are wily. and strong.
18: size, in months, of ralph lauren jumper your grandfather had to cut off of you with scissors because it was too tight.
6: minimum number of people who stop me on a daily basis to exclaim over your cuteness.
0: number of nights you've slept by yourself.

Nugget, the numbers don't tell even half of the story. {I've always had a robust suspicion of numbers anyhow}. The real story is in the uncounted daily wealth of smiles, cuddles, giggles, bounces, and prayers of thanks. I can't keep track of it all in my mind, on paper, on this blog, or on film. But I know that somewhere, in my heart, there is a vast and ever-expanding storage facility for all of this joy. Because just when I think my heart might burst, you smile your beaming, goofy, toothy grin, and it just expands instead. Happy 8 months, CP.

{is my hair on fire?}

2010-05-25T12:21:00.016-04:00

Remember when you were little and thought adults knew what they were doing?

I distinctly remember a "fire safety" assembly from second grade during which the presenter drilled into our young heads {while we were packed tightly into the cafe-gym-atorium} that, if we ever see a lighter or matches, "tell a grown up!" The refuge for nearly every youthful peril was "grown ups." Yet, now that I am allegedly one of these "grown ups," I can't imagine why anyone would trust me with a stray pack of matches, given that I am far more likely than a 7 year old to set my own hair on fire.

Ever since I was a teenager, I have been waiting for the day when I discover that, magically, I "have it together." Even as a child (uh, by which I mean during high school) I would stare in awe at the girls who made it through the whole school day without wearing some part of their lunch on their shirt. Now, at 29 1/2 years old, I am a wife, mother, lawyer, and homeowner. And yet, I am so supremely far away from "having it together" that I can't even begin to imagine what "having it together" even entails. But I know enough to know that whatever I've got is anything but "together." I think that is probably clear to anyone who has met me for longer than 45 seconds.

Every single day, without exception, I forget either my phone, my keys, or my lunch. Sometimes I forget all three, breezing out the front door without a thought in my head, apparently. Sometimes Shawn finds my full travel mug of coffee on the hallway console or the porch stairs. The "replacement security badge" lady at my office rolls her eyes when she sees me coming. One of my co-workers told me that he once lost his cellphone, only to find it five years later in the same briefcase he'd been toting to work every day. He passed the mantle of "office spaz" on to me when I told him that I once lost my car keys for several hours.. after I'd already used them to unlock the car doors.

A few days ago, I pulled out of our driveway, on my way to drop CP off at my parents' house for the day. As I slowed to a stop at the four way intersection on my street, I heard a thump, then watched, slack-jawed, as I saw my stainless-steel Notre Dame coffee thermos bounce off the windshield and roll into the intersection. Yes, I drove away with my coffee on the roof. Of course, the four way stop was fully populated with other motorists and parents waiting with their children for the school bus. I got out of my car with all the dignity I could muster and picked up the still-rolling thermos from the road while the less spastic mothers just stared with some combination of horror and pity. I think I heard one of them whisper to her child, "if you see matches or a lighter, don't give them to that lady."

Yesterday, it took me three tries to leave for work. First, I walked to the bus stop, only to realize that I was still wearing slippers, not shoes. fail number one. So I walked home, put on shoes, and walked back to the bus stop. Only to realize that I didn't have any money for the bus. fail number two. So, once again, I walked home, and decided to take the car. My crotchety old neighbor sat on his porch, and watched me walk past his house 4 times in vain while uttering increasingly-exasperated profanity with each new trip.

I never have an umbrella when it rains. I don't have change for the tollbooth. Don't have cash for a tip. and I do not know where that $200 Babies R Us merchandise voucher is.

Most kids figure out that their parents don't know everything somewhere around 12 or 13 years old. Circumstances being what they are, I think Connor will have that lesson learned within the week.

{horseshoes & hand grenades}

2010-05-25T07:50:00.004-04:00

if he were a fish, he'd be very advanced for his age. and his species.

{backyard explorer}

2010-05-14T22:32:00.002-04:00

{grandmas}

2010-05-11T09:53:00.011-04:00

Hanging with Grandma G

Talking with Grandma S

{happy mothers' day!}

2010-05-11T09:10:00.017-04:00

Apparently, this year was my "first" Mothers' Day. However, I celebrated it last year, while I was pregnant with Connor. In my mind, I became a mother as soon as I saw those two pink lines last January.

Motherhood suits me. In being a mother to Connor, I've discovered more patience, more humor, and much much more love. Mothering is many things, and can't be easily reduced to quotable cliches, checklists, or needlepoint-ready adages. However, I recently read a brilliant reflection on motherhood written by Anna Quindlen, in which she observes that her children have done more than any other force to excavate her essential humanity. I don't think I could put it any better myself.

This Mothers' Day was a nice celebration of family. My parents came over for the 9:30 mass, then we had brunch chez nous {potato and spinach frittata and oatmeal muffins with strawberry sauce}. Future Pope Connor was angelic in the cry room, even while all of the other children lost their minds well before the consecration. He looked around at the tear-streaked, red-faced screamers with a disdain that made us all chuckle.

In the afternoon, we planted the flower boxes and hanging baskets that Shawn & Connor got me for the occasion.

Connor's tree made it through the winter!

In this picture, you can see his two bottom teeth. The top front two are almost in now, as well.

YDB, CP. I love you.

{letter to connor: 7 months}

2010-05-11T08:08:00.014-04:00

Dear CP-

Seven months into your amazing little life, you are now revealing more and more of your budding personality, and charming the entire world with your chubby cheeks and two-toothed grin. Wherever we go, people exclaim over the wonder of your full head of hair and {even more commonly} your ruddy round cheeks. Sometimes when I am carrying you in the Moby, walking through a crowd, I'll hear a chorus of whispers trailing behind me of "cheeks!"

You love bouncing. You think every moment of the day is an occasion for bouncing. You would rather skip every developmental milestone there is and just bounce, bounce, bounce. You hold onto your doorway jumper with one hand, leaving the other dangling by your side as you pump your legs in chubby baby arabesques, lilting ever so slightly to one side.

You love the mirror. When you catch a reflection of your baby face, your eyes sparkle and your little mouth manages to lift those hulking cheeks into a thousand-watt smile. In short, you are delighted with yourself. {we can hardly blame you}.

You love grabbing mommy's hair and earrings {I, for one, am not as thrilled with this as you are}. You love giving people slobbery wet kisses on the cheek, grasping their face with both hands, and lurching forward with drooly mouth agape. You love your bottles. You love holding the spoon yourself. You love knocking all your toys off the high chair tray. You love being held. You love swimming. You love chomping on your bath toys. You love mickey mouse, of all things. You love your daddy, and save your biggest laughs for him.

The list of things you are not so fond of is considerably shorter. You do not love putting your arms through sleeves. You do not like pureed peas {again, can't blame you}. You do not like Ohio. {see prior parenthetical}. And you do not like sleeping alone.

Soon you'll need to start sleeping in your crib, as that {relatively} tiny 8 1/2 pound newborn has been replaced with a 25 lb wrecking ball, and we only have a queen sized bed. Although I know it is just about time for this transition, I'll miss snuggling with you, listening to your baby snores, and watching as you instinctively burrow into the crook of my arm, or grasp my thumb tightly while you sleep. I'll miss how you wake me up by pulling my nose or patting my cheeks.

There's no getting around the fact that you are growing up. Some days you look less like a baby and more like a little boy. I'm so lucky that I get to be your mom & cheer you on. Keep on bouncin, CP.

Love
Mommy

{catching up: notre dame}

2010-05-09T23:17:00.037-04:00

The weekend after Easter, Shawn, Connor & I were lucky enough to be invited to our friend Gerry's ordination at Notre Dame.

In my 29 years, I've been to a few weddings {and having married into Shawn's family, I'll surely be going to many, many more}. Weddings are special, even if routine summer Saturday events. Watching a couple pledge their lives to each other calls forth a catch in my throat and at least one tear every time. {except for my own wedding, oddly}.

So, nothing against weddings. But I have to say there is something particularly special about watching an ordination & participating in the celebration of a priest's first mass. When Gerry received his parents' blessing during his first mass at Notre Dame, there was not a dry eye in the house. Part of the mystique is surely the rarity of the occasion-- in my lifetime I'll likely only have attended this one ordination {unless Connor becomes the Pope, which has been my mother's fervent prayer since his birth}. But rarity aside, there is surely something more at work which adds to the awesomeness of the occasion.

Packed inside the over-capacity Basilica of the Sacred Heart, we were all witness to a small miracle: of the few that God calls to this vocation, surely very few have the courage, wisdom, grace, and quieted soul required to hear and follow the call. Particularly today, where there is no social expectation that men will become priests, and every social expectation that men like Gerry will go to college, eventually get married, and have kids, Gerry's decision to take the vows of priesthood, rather than of marriage, exudes authenticity. This is not a path you stumble down because you couldn't think of anything better to do {that path is called "law school"}. This is a path that you walk on with deliberate strides, because God has brushed aside the weeds, uncovered a hidden path, and said "Follow me."

On second thought, maybe a not-so-small miracle.

Well, the {normally, 6 hr} drive out to South Bend was Connor's first real road trip. At 12:12 Friday afternoon, we pulled out of the driveway, with a very full car.

{sidebar: On the way out of our neighborhood, we passed the Easter Bunny's headquarters. I can offer no explanation.}

At 2:02 we realized that we'd left home with a very full car, but all of Connor's bottles were still in the fridge. Oh, and he is due for a bottle at 2:15.

Parenting crisis on the horizon, we pull off the turnpike and semi-frantically search the Cleveland suburbs for a Target. We find one in a fairly nondescript place called Strongsville, Ohio. Parenting crisis averted! {but Parent of the Year consideration officially revoked.}

Please note two additional things about this photo: (1) Connor's 12-18 month size pants do not (i.e. can not, will not) snap at the waist due to his prodigious girth; and (2) the father of that little girl behind me eating pizza tried to make small talk with me while I was giving Connor this bottle by asking me if I went to Strongsville High School because I look familiar. I settled with a simple "no" rather than the much longer, and much more awkward response of "no, I'm not from around here, and frankly I don't think I could find my way back here if I tried-- I just stumbled into this Target because I left home on a multi-day road trip with no food for my infant child. "

{you left my bottles in another state? you clowns are in charge of me?}

3:28: Back on the road, Connor renders his verdict on Ohio. Cries, and cries, and cries.

Shawn, tormented by his child's displeasure, grips the wheel with a white-knuckled grasp, and repeatedly threatens to either (1) turn this car around and go home; and (2) check us into the first roadside motel we see.

5:34: Connor gives up his protest of Ohio, and blissfully falls asleep. Shawn concedes that, 5 hours into our trip, we might as well not turn around.

7:57: nearly 8 hours after starting out, we arrive in South Bend!

The nugget loves it.

Saturday morning, before the ordination, Gerry's friends cheered him on with a tailgate in the parking lot of Moreau Seminary. of course.

Connor got to hang out with his Uncle Steve while we were on campus.

The Morrissey RAs reunited.

{prayers asked}

{prayer answered}

{happy easter!}

2010-04-06T08:21:00.017-04:00

We celebrated Easter with Shawn's family in J-town, and had a great trip.

We discovered that our infant son can easily pass for an overweight, middle-aged insurance salesman, given the right confluence of expression, outfit, and side-part.

We played some soccer in the park. Matt approached the game with an entirely appropriate level of relaxed enthusiasm, of course.

Connor & I played in the grass, instead.

Lily relaxed in the sun, contemplating the meaning of life. and wondered if she was within arms-reach of the grabby six month old nearby.

Connor learned the finer points of playing pinochle

Like how to mark your ace

And Steve found out the best way to discover that a baby has cut his first tooth:

That's right, Connor has a tooth! It's a bottom middle tooth. I haven't been able to snap a picture of it yet, because every time i pull down his lower lip, he just sticks his tongue out. He's got some surprisingly effective defensive moves.

This was Connor's first Easter. And my first Easter without eating a single Peep. Equally momentous occasions? I'll let you be the judge.

is this really the same kid?

2010-04-06T08:09:00.010-04:00

Just the other day, rummaging through our home office, I came across the "professional" picture taken of Connor in the hospital, at 2 days old. {I hesitate to call this photography professional, as the entire operation consisted of two ladies, a wheeled baby cart, and some attention-grabbing noisemakers. The entire "photo session" lasted all of about 4 minutes. Maybe 3.}.

This was back when we thought that Connor looked a lot like Shawn-- dark eyes, dark hair, dark skin. But, over the months, his hair has gotten lighter, his eyes have turned a brown/green/gray hazel, and his complexion has Casper-ed up considerably {turns out his initial coloring had more to do with mild jaundice than paternal genetics. sorry, s.}.

So, who does this guy look like now? {no extra points for matching outfits}.

{wrong number}

2010-04-05T05:47:00.010-04:00

Letter to Connor {6 months}

2010-04-02T22:16:00.048-04:00

CP- you are six months old! ...And a bit. Yes, I know this letter is late. Let's just accept the fact that every monthday letter from now until the end of time is going to be at least 3 days late (and possibly as many as 30 days late). Working from that continuing assumption, I won't have to acknowledge my tardiness every time I start a post.

Instead, I will be free to start every post with: WOW, YOU WEIGH A LOT!! {Ok, maybe that wouldn't be the most tactful way to start a letter to you on, say, your 30th birthday. but at 6 months old, I'm going to assume that your self-esteem will be in no way impaired by the fact that you are in the 415th percentile for height, weight, and head circumference.} At your 6 month checkup, you logged a solid weigh-in of 23 pounds even, and 28 1/2 inches long. To put that in perspective, that's the average length for a 9 month old, and the average weight of a 12 month old. Today I asked your dad if he would mind considering a change of career field from consulting to chiropractic. I've got to either start lifting weights or get fitted for a back brace, because at this rate we are going to need a forklift to pick you up by 9 months old. {I think that at least 10 of your 23 pounds consist of cheeks and chin(s). We last saw your neck sometime in early January.} 99% of your abundant wardrobe consists of {amazingly cute} hand me downs from your second cousins Jack, Brendan & Nickolai. The twins are a full year older than you, but I fear that you will shortly surpass their size, and I will have to actually buy you some clothes. slow down, nugget!

So, you're more of a tank than a "peanut," but that doesn't stop us from calling you the latter. We also call you "nugget" {see above} and, sometimes, "meatball," and have recently started referring to you as "t-rex" due to a curious and kind of alarming growling noise that you make. also, we call you connor. occasionally.

Given all of the above, we are admittedly quite surprised that you're not more enthusiastic about eating "first foods" like rice cereal, oatmeal, and pureed banana. After giving said mush a disgusted lip curl, you proceed to humor us by taking about 10 tiny spoonfuls, then stonewalling any further entry into your mouth. We find this all rather ironic since you put absolutely everything into your mouth, except your lovingly prepared homemade organic baby food. Disgusting junk mail insert covered in toxic inks? Yum! Washcloth & rubber ducky? Yes, goes in mouth! Bibs, burpcloths? MMM, yum! Organic banana puree? The horror! This week I think we are going to try peas, carrots and sweet potato. Maybe one of these will be to your liking. If not, I will soon be googling how to clean pea mash out of roman shades.

All in all, you are a fantastically happy baby. You cry so infrequently that when the rare occasion for tears does present itself, your dad and I freak out, thinking that you must be seriously injured. You smile, giggle, coo, yell, squeak, and growl all day long, and we can't get enough of your constant entertainment. You are starting to be more independent, enjoying your toy-throttling time in the exersaucer while I make your bottles or drink some coffee. Every month you amaze us more and more. It's truly an incredible experience to watch someone see and learn things for the first time. You approach every moment with an unyielding curiosity that invites me to see old things in new ways {and reminds me to keep my coffee far, far away from your grabby curiosity}.

Lately, our family has had to grapple with the sad news of the far-too-soon passing of your very first little cousin, Grace Elizabeth. We all had big plans for you and Gracie, who would have been less than a year apart in age. You never got a chance to meet your little cousin, but she has impacted all of our lives just the same. Her death is a painful reminder that all of our days are numbered, and though we plan and plan and plan for the future, we are only promised today. this moment. so we keep her close to our hearts and try to fill each moment with more of the kinds of memories that we want to comprise "our life" when the sum total of all of these moments is finally calculated-- baby snores, morning coffee, neighborhood walks in the moby, good-morning kisses, and good night stories.

Our lives, and our hearts, are so full thanks to you, nugget. You are 6 months old, and we are loving each moment as it graces our lives.

Love,
Mommy.

p.s. overdue pictures of the cuteness below.

We have a book that "reads" itself to Connor, but he won't even let the narrator get through the first sentence of "Animals are big and small; can you count them all?"

letter to connor {5 months}

2010-03-08T22:29:00.024-05:00

Hi nugget-
You are five months old! Actually you are five months, one week, and five days old. I'm currently working on my first actual jury trial, and, in the course of sitting in on the proceedings, have discovered at least two things: (1) our federal judiciary relies heavily on candy to keep the jury awake. As in, the judge will actually interrupt a lawyer mid-sentence and direct the clerk to pass out candy to the jury; and (2) billing 15 hours a day does not give me much time to update this blog, particularly when our crummy laptop takes 25 minutes to boot up. But, if I'm being honest, i can't really blame my tardiness on work. Meeting deadlines has never been my strong suit. For example, your father and I just sent out your baptism thank-yous this week. And you were baptized the first week of January. So, you might call those thank-yous overdue. And while we are at it, a few other thank yous that are overdue:

Thanks Uncle Hughie and Aunt Lizzy for the valentine's day card.

Also, thanks to the McManame Family & Mary Cannon in Scotland for the adorable clothes they sent Connor-- one of our favorite outfits is pictured below:

I can't believe how animated you are at 5 months. Your dad and I were just saying the other day that we wish we could use a time machine to take 5-month-old Connor back to meet 4-week-old Connor and do a side-by-side live comparison. We concluded that 5-month-old Connor would undoubtedly beat tiny baby Connor to a pulp. Mostly because you seem to demonstrate your happiness and excitement by punching things. You play with your toys like you hate them. When we put you in your exersaucer, you throttle the little Sun and yell "agooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!" "wooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!" at each of the other toys in turn. All appearances to the contrary, we're pretty sure you're having a good time. See below:

As mentioned earlier, tracking baby milestones is not really my forte {just imagine the pickle I'd be in if I was somehow required to write thank yous regarding baby milestones on a deadline..}. So, I'm not entirely sure what 5 month old is "supposed" to be doing, but as far as I can tell you are developing quite nicely. At 5 months, you weighed in at a whopping 21 lb 13 oz. That's off the percentile charts, and a mere 3 oz. from the weight limit on your infant car seat. Or, as your father put it, "one constipated day away from breaking the car seat." So, we got a new convertible car seat with a maximum weight limit of 60 lbs. That should last you until next Thursday, at least.

Your dad, who is the designated "baby product assembler" in the house, had to install the new seat in our Civic. It wasn't pretty. As you and I watched from the porch swing, we sympathized as he squinted as the installation manual, looked at the car seat, squinted at the manual, repeat, repeat, repeat. He eventually concluded that the red "optional" tether would never disconnect from the back of the seat, and was, in fact, just there to keep parents on their toes-- i.e. to see if you are paying attention while your wily infant tries to strangle himself with a 2 foot long rope attached to his car seat.

At some point, your father yelled "I hope we can still return this piece of crap after I've kicked it down the street!!" It never {quite} came to that, but that car seat is definitely going back to the store.

In other "milestone" news, you have recently discovered your toes:

And you love making raspberry noises all day long:

You are also thisclose to sitting up. But not quite there. Your efforts to do a sit-up take me back to the dark days of middle school, when I was subjected to the Presidential Physical Fitness Test. No, I did not get a medal. And my sit-up technique hasn't improved much since.

You are also trying to crawl, but so far have only succeeded in scooting backwards, rather than forwards.

But best of all, is the sound of you laughing. You make us laugh every single day, and bring so much joy into our lives.

things {connor} loves thursday

2010-02-25T06:25:00.015-05:00

Thanks to a decades-old stash in Shawn's parents' attic, Connor owns a hefty stash of Dr. Seuss books. The "This book belongs to.." pages of our sticky...er.."vintage" collection often contain the penciled-in scrawl M I K E or B E T H. It appears that Mike, as a 6 year old, had better penmanship than my 26 year old brother Hugh has now. As for Beth, she was once {apparently} so enamored with the ability to write her name on the "belongs to" page that she just kept going and wrote her name on every. single. page. {and yet, one of your siblings still appropriated the book! try again!}

Connor's current favorites are Hooper Humperdink, The Berenstain's B Book, There's a Wocket in My Pocket, Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?, The Cat in the Hat, A Great Day for Up, Fox in Socks, and Please Try To Remember the First of Octember!

Dr. Seuss' iambic brilliance is so catchy that sometimes, while at my office attempting to draft a motion or e-mail a client, my mind is instead quietly marching along to the rhythmic tounge-twisting of

When beetles battle beetles
in a puddle paddle battle
and the beetle battle puddle
is a a puddle in a botttle..
they call this
a tweetle beetle
bottle pudddle
paddle battle muddle.

We try to rotate through our non-Seuss books as well. Pretty much the only book I cannot read to Connor is "Someday." The sticker on the cover of this book bills it as "a celebration of life, love, and the bond between mother & child." Shawn and I, however, have come to the mutual conclusion that the sticker should instead read "WARNING: EMOTIONAL TERRORISM." How are you supposed to read your baby a book about a "someday" in which your baby is old and gray and looking at a silver-framed picture of his/her long-dead mother?!? I tried to read it to Connor on at least 3 separate occasions, and just ended up sobbing, with Connor looking at me like "uh, I thought crying was my job!!"

We try to read Connor a few books every night before bed. He likes to "read" along with us, i.e. out-shout the reader with "gooooooooooooooooooooo!" or "awoooooooooo!" Apparently, he does not yet understand the whole "one person talking at a time" thing. I have a feeling we will be continue to get notices of this inclination from Connor's future teachers.

Sometimes, if we have no books handy, we read him... uh, the Band-Aid box:

Taking a walk down the street to the library to pick out some new books:

Connor is just four days shy of 5 months old!

{wordless wednesday}

2010-02-24T06:26:00.002-05:00

going green. or: in with the righteous indignation, out with the doritos.

2010-02-23T21:11:00.011-05:00

We've been making some big changes at our house.

A few weeks ago, Shawn and I watched the documentary Food, Inc. It turned out to be nothing less than a total game changer for our family. I'd never considered myself much of an environmentalist. I mean, yeah, I put my beer bottles and cereal boxes in the recycling bin, but that was about it. Shawn had always been the "greener" half of this couple. Some illustrative examples: (1) One of the man's lifelong aspirations is to get rain barrels installed below our gutters so that he can water the lawn with collected rainwater. I mostly told him that this project was off limits if the rain barrels were at all ugly. (2) We'll be traveling to Indiana in a few weeks, and Shawn was seriously contemplating filling our car with aluminum cans so that we could drop them off in Michigan for a 10 cent deposit refund. I told him that, under no circumstances, were we driving a Honda full of our garbage across state lines. So, you can see my level of commitment to saving the earth. I mean, I wasn't out dousing baby seals in oil, but I wasn't up at night crying about them, either.

Then along came Food, Inc. Now, I expected to receive this documentary with the same sense of skeptical disdain that I typically reserve for such lefty docu-films. I don't think I'd ever gotten through a Michael Moore production without excessive eye rolling and dismissive headshaking. Followed by a strong desire to slap everyone who thought he was some kind of hero/genius/visionary. I basically thought he was a fat guy with an agenda and a camera.

So imagine my surprise when I start watching Food, Inc.... and I'm mesmerized. How did the makers of this movie get me to care, when Pierce Brosnan and all of his "save the whales" letters failed?? The short answer: instead of appealing to my sense of compassion (in dubious state of crustiness much of the time), the makers of Food, Inc. appealed to a higher sense: my righteous indignation! They made me mad! You mean to tell me that I am just an unthinking pawn at the mercy of the dark and mysterious forces of agribusiness?!? That companies are putting high fructose corn syrup in everything imaginable, then running ad campaigns alleging that it's the same thing as sugar?? I won't go into a play by play of the film, but I firmly believe that anyone who eats food should watch it. Suffice it to say, the whole thing made me so mad that I just said "I'm out." I don't want any part of this mess, and I'm voting with my knife, fork and spoon every time I sit down to eat.

So, we're going organic.

There will be plenty of follow-up posts on this subject, so for now I'll just leave it here.

And speaking of food, here are some pictures of Connor enjoying his {organic} rice cereal. We got the go-ahead at his 4 month appointment, and it really comes as no surprise that our butterball loves his cereal.

This is his first attempt. Note the prayer hands and the intense focus:

Followed by a barfy sense of being overwhelmed:

Subsequent attempts: I can do it myself!

Some of it went in his mouth, I swear.

He absolutely refused to swallow the last spoonful, just sat there grinning at us with his cheeks stuffed with mush:

Connor is 4 months and 3 weeks old.

{wordless wednesday}

2010-02-17T06:44:00.006-05:00

{love}

2010-02-15T22:30:00.000-05:00

Love.... fresh off the griddle with a warm banana walnut topping so decadent that it set off Emergency Response alarms at Weight Watchers Central Command {buried deep in an undisclosed mountain location, known only to those with a demonstrated appreciation for fiber and portion control}:

Needless to say, there were warm fuzzies aplenty chez nous this Valentine's day. After chowing down, we {ok, I} dressed up the First Pancake Himself in some adorable holiday garb {thanks Annie!}. In a nod to his boyhood, I tried to man-up the be-hearted sweatsuit with an automobile-themed t-shirt. {In retrospect, I see the folly in thinking that tiny embroidered trucks would draw one's eye away from the huge red heart applique on his rear end}.

In a semi-miraculous turn of events, his days-of-the-week socks (a) matched the color of his outfit; (b) matched each other; and (c) matched the actual day of the week {unlike those times I come home on a Monday to find that Shawn has outfitted Connor in Tuesday socks and a Friday onesie}.

We had a fun day hanging out at the house:

In the evening, we enjoyed some funky local wine and made our own "ballpark" pretzels to eat during a viewing of Field of Dreams {brought to you by VHS and a much-younger Kevin Costner}. The pretzels turned out pretty great, although I don't see us winning any actual ballpark food-service contracts anytime soon:

Connor helped with the egg wash:

Shawn did our alma mater proud with his Notre Dame pretzel:

I fell asleep shortly after Shoeless Joe Jackson made his first appearance in the corn. Dreaming that some long-dead pretzel artist would appear in my kitchen to do the dishes...

things {connor} loves thursday

2010-02-11T22:00:00.023-05:00

His first love was fingers. Anyone's, really. He lamely let all dozen varieties of pacifiers that Shawn and I purchased plop unceremoniously from his mouth. To hell with those orthodontic nipples, he seemed to say through his expression of newborn disgust. Give me some fingers. And so, for the first four weeks of his life, Connor spent nearly every waking moment sucking on somebody's pinky.

By the time he would finally abide being set down for a few moments, he discovered the majestic glory of his jungle gym play mat, in all its dangling, blinking, battery-powered glory. Never has a tinny version of "skip to my lou" so inspired a human soul as it did the first time it graced Connor's infant ears. He would give himself over to that mechanized melody, spastically pumping his arms and legs while entranced by the disco-baby lights flashing above his saucer-sized eyes. With a frenzied, flapping, jerky rhythm he would move to the sound of the music with enough enthusiasm to convey his message: "These hanging elephants are making me dance. I hope you stocked up on D batteries."

Then, one day (which day, exactly? only mothers who fill in their baby books would know) I unglued my eyes from Jack McCoy long enough to realize: my kid has grasped an object! His once-random drum-major arm gyrations have been channeled into productive use! He has a plastic parrot by the jugular!

Eventually, he further fine tuned his motor skills with some enthusiastic throat punches directed at the blue elephant. {yeah, this video is sideways with no sound. I think i have a really promising future in videography}

Since then, Connor has spent many happy hours on his mat, while Shawn and I smile and watch and wonder if we will ever hear the end of my lou's skipping. and then wistfully remind ourselves that one day {too soon} he won't be so little anymore, and this 3x3 jungle mat will no longer be his play universe. So we put in a fresh set of batteries, and hum along.

Connor is 4 months and {nearly} 2 weeks old.

{wordless wednesday}

2010-02-10T09:38:00.001-05:00

snowed in

2010-02-09T20:30:00.000-05:00

"Snowmageddon." Yes, that was seriously the front-page Sunday headline of our local paper.
{For a town that prides itself on its blue-collar grit, we sure do enjoy some winter weather hyperbole. And, of course, we'll take both fries and coleslaw directly on top of that hyperbole, please. Never on the side.}. We are still digging out from under the 21 inches of snow that fell Saturday, and more is falling as I write this. The world outside is white and wintry, and lovely enough to make a Pennsylvanian not begrudge groundhog Phil for calling forth 6 more weeks of winter. Then again, I'm not one of the tens of thousands of people without power, heat, and hot water. So, I guess I can see the argument for pushing Punxsutawney Phil into early retirement in Florida.

Well, after a cozy Friday evening at home making (and eating, naturally) these

we woke up Saturday morning to this:

so, we suited up the peanut and walked through town

he was skeptical about the whole plan, but we had fun.

Connor is {still} 4 months, 1 week and 3 days old. And snoozing to the white noise from a thrift-store TV.

letter to connor, 4 months 1 week and 3 days

2010-02-09T09:51:00.000-05:00

Well, hello peanut.

By the time you are actually reading this, you may even have the good sense to wonder why I didn't start this blog sooner. Like, maybe 5 minutes after I saw "YES+" pop up on a pregnancy test in January 2009. Or, if not then, at least within hours of your long-awaited arrival on September 29, 2009. Well, I'm not sure I have an answer to that. However, I'm sure that by the time you get around to asking yourself these sorts of questions, I'll have since engaged in enough certifiably lunatic behavior that "why didn't my mom properly document my gestation and infancy?" will be the least of your questions or concerns. So, it's true-- your $75 custom-designed baby book is still stuffed into a canvas basket underneath your changing table. In a frenzy of good-intentioned craftiness, I did glue on one picture of you. Then I sort of ruined the "simple yet modern" vibe of the design by bedazzling your little picture with a bevy of mildly obnoxious pastel-colored stickers which proclaim that you are, indeed, "precious," "our treasure" or "perfect," etc.

I recently flipped through the book, filled with prompts like "first time rolled over," "first laugh," and "first smile."

Well, those blanks are yet-to-be filled in. Not because you haven't figured out how to do those things (you do them all quite well, to our great amusement). No, the blanks remain so because I (despite all of my lofty Martha Stewart aspirations) will probably never successfully complete a scrapbook in my entire life. In light of this inimitable truth, I've decided to start this blog, instead. Enjoy. And remember, if you don't call your mother often once you grow up and move out, I have plenty, PLENTY, of incriminating spit-up pictures that I won't hesitate to show your fiancee.

You are growing up so fast (the cliches are all true) and I want to be able to look back and remember you at every stage. Your father and I joke that you're our "first pancake"-- the one on whom we adjust the batter consistency and griddle temp (not literally, obviously) before ladling out the rest of the batch. So, apologies in advance for all of the mishaps to come. You might be our first pancake, but you're also the kid who made us into parents. And no one else will ever be able to say that.

So, to recap:

We started the countdown to meeting you on January 9, 2009.

You scoffed at the notion of a 40 week gestational period, and were still snug and cozy in the womb at 41 weeks 3 days, when mommy was induced

After 36 hours of labor and 2 failed epidurals, you arrived via c-section on September 29, 2009 at 8:52 pm. You weighed 8 lb 11 oz (just like mommy! at birth, that is. definitely not at the time she delivered you) and measured 22 in long. The first thing the surgeon said was "he's so handsome! look at that hair!" (or at least that's what I think she said. I was getting about 4 different intravenous drugs at the time).

we took you home. you were so tiny.

you grew.

and grew

and grew.

and now you are 4 months, 1 week and 3 days old.
and I love you more every day.

Love,
Mommy