F is also for four months

Look at that baby, all round and perfect in her four-month-old glory. Sherri says that Alexandra is always happy as can be. Simply glance in her direction and you will be rewarded with a big, gooey smile. I love it.

After receiving the above picture with a message of "Come Visit Me," a February visit is in the works. I cannot wait to get my hands on Alexandra's chubby cheeked goodness. I am selfish and want those smiles (and those rolls upon rolls) all to myself.

And while I'm being selfish, I must admit to being hopeful that Alexandra's laidback demeanor is indicative of second-borns everywhere, and that Baby Lindh will be equally pleasant. Never mind that Baby L's parents are anything but laidback. That has nothing to do with influencing a child's demeanor.

F is for funny

And what is more funny than a three-year-old who loves his dad so much that he'll even put on his dad's dirty socks? Which of course results in the much sought-after legwarmer look that is so fashionable among the preschool set.

And while we're on the topic of funnies, my boy Brennan has been dashing off some doozies these days. 

• The Words Come Back to Bite You: While out shoveling last week's snowfall, Sherri took a spill. After asking if she was okay, Brennan said, "Good. Now shake it off."
• Combine King: He wants a combine. Bad. When Sherri said, "Brennan, you have a combine at home. It's in the shed Papa Thole built." He responded, "No, mom. I need a real combine. To harvest my wheat." Even after she told him that they didn't have room for a combine -- much less the half of a million dollars required to buy one -- Brennan wouldn't let it go. The next morning he woke up and told Sherri that he was pretty sure it would fit next to their walkout basement door, and that he would check out the space when he got home that evening from school.
• This Little Piggy: Continuing the farm theme, Brennan declared the other day that he would like to ride a pig. Not a pony, but a pig. But only because "Pigs don't bite, right mom?" 
• My Kids: Brennan started at a new preschool this month, and despite a few concerns regarding the amount of food they were giving him ("Mom, I like school, but they are always giving me food!"), he has really taken to his new teacher and classmates. So much so that he deemed them "my kids," as in "Mom, my kids laughed when I tooted on the floor today."
• Eat Your Greens: Apparently being constantly fed at school has turned Brennan into a more adventurous eater. While making a spinach salad the other night, Brennan asked Sherri if he could try some. After munching on a piece of spinach for a good 20 minutes, he returned the uneaten half to the bowl, which Sherri surely appreciated. Shortly thereafter, Brian entered the kitchen, and Brennan proudly told him, "Dad, I just ate a salad!" 

And let's have one more legwarmer shot, just for fun.

I think we can all agree that funny or not, Brennan owns this look.

Creative, schmeative

There seems to be a lot of confusion out there that creative = pretty art.

Screw clever writing, screw independent thought, screw cutting-edge solutions. Nope, if it's not pretty, it's not creative.

Someone better break it to the inventors and authors of the world. And who is going to tell God? I mean, hell, I bet the first day He spent making the world it didn't look like a Monet painting. And I think we can all agree that God is one creative dude.

Honestly.

So, to make myself feel better, I invite you to visit my friends at dictionary.com to check out the definition for the word creative.

I do this because I don't want you, kind reader, to ever read a brilliant book, hear a mind-boggling concept or witness a unique event and deem it not creative, simply because it didn't have nice art to go along with it. And I most certainly don't want you to build an entire work or personal project around something like a logo. Because let me tell you, doing so will not bode well for you. Yes, what  you do has to look good, but you better back that shiz up with something solid.

E is for elastic waist pants

Ah, maternity pants. Hate the way they look, love the way they feel.

And talk about efficient. There's something beautiful about not having to deal with all of that unbuttoning, unzipping, untucking, tucking, zipping and buttoning when you want to hit the loo. Which you tend to do a lot when you're pregnant.

So here's to you, my dear maternity pants. You may be overpriced and understyled, but damn if you aren't comfortable.

Nuked

When you're using the contraband office microwave (read: seriously low wattage) you have a lot of time to think. As I watched my leftover sloppy joes and frozen peas spin 'round and 'round, I thought, "I'm so pregnant."

And as I removed the Rubbermaid Easy Find Lid segmented container (part of a 24-storage set on last year's Christmas list, natch) from the microwave, I thought, "I'm so middle class."

And then my eyes landed on the professionally printed "Mary Clare Lindh" tag that sat atop the lid. And I thought, "I'm so a mom." 

But I do make good sloppy joes.

The alphabetization of the blog

Yeah, I don't know what's going on with this whole alphabet-related posting thing, either.  I do know, however, that so far it's worked with what is top of mind or what I am loving at any particular moment. Like Alexandra's cheeks. Still loving those.

And also? Those post titles don't write themselves. And you know I'll take any excuse I can get to use alliteration.

So bear with me until I can convince Sherri to send me a new Alexandra pic every day so I can switch over to an all-chubby-cheeks format.

D is for dismissed

Chip is finally get a taste of what it's like to be number two in Mary Clare's world.

Yesterday Mary Clare and Nana had their usual Monday date, and Papa, the old softie, left work early so he could play with Mary Clare before she had to go home. The only problem was that she didn't want to go home. Which she made quite clear when Nana tried to wrangle her into her coat.


N: Come on, Mary Clare, we have to go home.
M: No. Papa!
N: Don't you want to go see daddy?
M: No! Papa!
N: Don't you want to see mommy?
M: No! Papa!
N: What about Buddy?
M: No! Papa! Papa!


Needless to say, my mom and Mary Clare were a little late meeting Chip. I am actually surprised they got her in the car. Money probably exchanged hands.

Chip thought the whole story was funny, but I can tell he's not used to playing second fiddle. The fall from grace can be long and hard, buddy. Welcome to my world.

C is for cleaning

Mary Clare is, well, a lot like us. The girl likes to clean. And I'll just leave it at that for now, because no one's ready to hear tales of a two year old who stops mid-cry to close an open drawer or who likes to park her doll stroller just so every night. 

The other evening while we did the dinner dishes, Mary Clare happily cleaned the kitchen counter tops. And then once Chip needed that counter space for drying dishes, she moved onto cleaning her kitchen set. 

She has just as much interest in vacuuming as she does dusting. On more than one occasion she has followed Chip from room to room as he vacuums, using an old push toy as her vacuum. So when we had to swap out a birthday toy (at the gift giver's suggestion), we decided Mary Clare would greatly appreciate a vacuum. And she did.

Buddy, however, did not appreciate the gesture. The poor guy is still scared of the Dyson, so really, this is about the worst thing that's happened to him since we told him we're bringing another two-legged terror into the house.

B is for beefy thighs

When you have cheeks like these, you need something to balance out your top half. And so you better believe that Alexandra has some meaty thighs to match her chunka chunka cheeks. It's all about proportion. 

As her Uncle Chip likes to say, "That girl has Larry Csonka thighs."

A is for adorable

Mmm, mmm, mmm. I do love those cheeks.

I need an Alexandra fix. The in-person, snuggle her close and cover her with kisses kind. Stat.

You can't have it both ways

Clearly, I am a tad sensitive when it comes to comments about the belly. However, I'm at that stage where I welcome some comments about the belly, if only so people recognize that I'm pregnant, and don't just think that I'm getting super chunky.

Case in point, I strolled into a meeting the other morning with some colleagues who don't yet know that I'm expecting. I looked, I thought, quite pregnant. Despite the friendly relationship I have with everyone in the room, and the fact that there was a fair amount of chit chatting between calls, not one person said, "Oh! I didn't know you were pregnant!"

Which means they just though I looked fat. I became so indignant at the thought of them judging my fatness that I pulled out the big guns: I started the belly rub. Nothing exaggerated, mind you, but I definitely let the hands rest on the bump. But alas, the much-hated belly holding was for naught.

So now my coworkers think I'm fat and proud of my girth.

Looks like I'll just have to wear a tighter shirt tomorrow. You have been warned.

I'm sorry, but you need to be thin if you're going to say such things

I've been dealing with a cold/sinus issue since the holidays, so I finally went to my primary care doctor this week to make sure it wasn't a serious sinus infection. As the nurse took my vitals and such, she asked if there were any changes to my medical history, so I told her I was four months pregnant. And so as she took down the rest of my information, we chatted about Mary Clare, her two children and such.

As I took off my sweater so she could take my blood pressure, she said, "Wow! You're already showing?" I said, "Um, yeah. I'm four months, though. And this is my second." And you know what she said? Well, let me tell you, it wasn't "Oh, yeah, that makes sense." or "Yep, you sure do pop out faster with the second!"

No, no. Nothing that sensible. She said, "Still."

We didn't chat much after that.

He'll have to try harder than that

Some of the less twisted in the bunch may find this a tad alarming, but Chip and I frequently talk about offing one another. You know, for the insurance money. But only so Mary Clare, Baby L and Buddy can have a better life. Certainly not so mommy can hire a pool boy named Julio.

Actually, now that I think about it, I'm usually the one joking about cashing in on the ol' life insurance policy. But Chip's policy is larger than mine, so really, I'm just being practical. But he's a good sport and plays along. And he can usually go back to sleep after awakening to find me holding a pillow over his head in the middle of the night.

Well, it may have gotten to be a bit too much for the old boy, because while Chip was out of town for a few days this week, a few peculiar things took place. Yesterday morning I plugged the curling iron into the outlet, and was greeted with a huge pop and a spark. A few minutes later, as I cleaned the heavy, full-length mirror that Mary Clare had so lovingly coated with milk, the entire mirror came crashing down. Luckily, Mary Clare was standing farther away -- not because of my admonishments, mind you, but because it offered a better vantage point for admiring her handiwork -- so she still has all of her fingers and toes. And despite having reflexes that can best be described as the opposite of cat-like, I emerged unscathed as well.

Some may say coincidence, but I say bring it, buddy. You'll have to try harder than that to scare me away.

January 8 Update: Chip noted that no one has commented on this post. He thinks it for fear of reprisals. Your silence only makes him stronger.

The second birthday bash

Mary Clare's birthday was a tad more low key this year, in that she only had one party instead of two. We had our families over on the 29th for dinner and dessert, and at 18 people, that still makes for a full house.

 

Chip escaped having to make tissue paper flowers again, but we did have a time of it trying to hang her birthday banner. Plaster walls and hard-as-nails woodwork are killer. On both your patience and your marriage.
 

And, because I can't get it through my thick skull that I am not the cake decorator I once dreamed of becoming, I set out to make a round, two layer decorated cake for Mary Clare as well. I know that most of you can do that with your eyes closed, but cake decorating troubles me to no end. But, hey, I made it. So what if you can see the cake through the icing? Or that the cake is lopsided? It tasted good. Especially with that layer of Nutella in the middle. Mmm, Nutella.

Luckily, the special "2" shirt my mom made for Mary Clare turned out better than the cake. Thank heavens for Nana.

Click here for more birthday photo fun.

The kitchen that Papa built

Mary Clare received an extremely special Christmas gift from Papa and Nana Thole this year -- a kitchen set built by my dad, with pot holders, a towel, an apron and a chef's hat made by my mom. Saying that Mary Clare loves it is an understatement. Hell, Chip and I love it. Just look at that bad boy.

The sink can hold water, the oven has a motion-sensor light, there's plenty of cabinet storage, and the magnetic knife block can accommodate Mary Clare's impressive Wüsthof collection. And the refrigerator is equally grand, with an adorable produce crisper at the very bottom.

I must say, I do appreciate my parents' attention to detail. And their imagination. All of the accessories on the set are standard household items from Bed Bath & Beyond, Lowe's and Ikea.

So let's hear it for Nana and Papa, and for a daughter who loves to cook in her kitchen while I prepare dinner in our kitchen.

DJ Dance-A-Lot

Like I mentioned last week, you will most likely see the remnants of our Christmas until, oh, Valentine's day or so. Because I am slow on the upload. Tonight I worked on videos, so a video you shall get.

And in addition to stretching the holidays out for all they're worth, you will also find that the blog title is a smidge misleading, because if you watched the video, you know that not only does Mary Clare not do much DJ work, but her dancing skills are questionable at best. But hey, the girl looks cute. Especially in her Nana-made Christmas dress. Because that's what the new year is about. Christmas.