Have this kind of a weekend

Preferably with a Papa who lets you wield the sprinkle shaker.

Or anyone who finds your antics as hilarious as you do.

My very own band geek

You all know Mary Clare has moves. Well, after rediscovering the poorly hidden Melissa & Doug band in a box (thanks again for that, Aunt Sherri), Mary Clare is now intent on creating music for shaking her moneymaker. 

Considering her parents' dancing skills are downright shameful, this is a good call. The girl is also staying true to her roots, because, in case you didn't know -- or couldn't guess from my blatant nerdiness -- I was in fact a proud member of the Mater Dei Marching Knights. And while I can try and tell you that being in the band was not social suicide at my high school (we were the pride of Clinton County, after all) there is just no changing some people's minds. And those would be the minds of the former cheerleaders and jocks I befriended post-high school. Seriously, none of my college friends, Chip's friends or my work friends were in the band. How is that possible? 

Anyway, I loved being in the band (French horn/mellophone, baby!) and enjoyed every roll step, parade and plume that came with it. So I'm down with Mary Clare loving on her band in the box. She even fakes the notes she doesn't know. And she comes by that honestly as well, I'm afraid.

Zero risk

Chip has a company car, and since we are married, I am listed as an approved driver on his fleet vehicle. I know, right? I don't think anyone has approved of my driving since Mr. Hopcus begrudgingly passed me in driver's education in 1992.

But enough about my driving or the fact that my dad's most often used phrase during the permit driving phase was "slow down," as in "Slow down. Slow Down. SLOW DOWN. SLOW DOWN! SLOWDOWNSLOWDOWNSLOWDOWN!" We're talking about Chip's company's fleet department here. And the fact that they, once again, approve of me tooling around in the old Equinox.

And they don't just approve of me, they consider me to be zero risk. Which is awesome, because, ahem, I may or may not have racked up three speeding tickets. In a 12-month period.

After reading the letter that proclaimed his wife a zero risk driver and regaining his composure, Chip turned to me and said, "Not that I ever doubted it, but Rob Hehmeyer obviously knows what he's doing when it comes to fixing tickets."

And to that I say, while this NPR-listening driver was mildly offended at having two of the warnings reduced to noise violations, I never questioned your ability to attorney, Rob. You're the bee's knees in my book.

Easter photo parade

The cutest cousin trio you ever did see.

Even Brennan is amazed by Alexandra's perma-smile.

Into the hunt, but easily distracted by the contents of these magical eggs.

Papa and his newest best girl.

These two are so stinking sweet, you almost feel bad stealing their candy.

Cabbage patch

I must admit, I am fearful that the lack of severe heartburn I've experienced with this pregnancy means that Baby Lindh is going to be a baldy. Darn you, you old wives' tales that seem to be true.

With Mary Clare, I had to take Zantac 75 every day and lo and behold, she emerged with a beautiful head of dark hair. But with this pregnancy, I can usually get by with some smooth dissolve Tums. So you know what that means. Baby Lindh will emerge with nary a hair on his or her wrinkly little head.

But let's be real here, people, there's no way I could manage to crank out two beautifully coiffed newborns. People with thin hair like mine just don't get that lucky.

Thankfully, Baby Lindh's recent movement patterns clearly show that while the bambino might be bald, the kid will have some sick dance moves. Because I'm pretty sure the baby is kicking back in my womb doing the cabbage patch. Yes, this cabbage patch.

Sadly, recalling a 90s-era move -- one I would never even attempt to pull off, even in a mocking manner -- is the only way I can properly describe the sensation. The pressure starts on one side of my stomach, and then it continues in one fluid movement across my stomach and over to the other side. Usually I can even see the ripple through my clothes. And then we repeat. And repeat. And repeat. Good times.

Speaking of good times, you can thank me later for sharing with you the image of a long-haired, short shorts-wearing dude who will likely now haunt your dreams. And let's be honest, who isn't totally picturing Baby L in utero rocking a sweet headband and knee socks?

Toothbrush trickery

Mary Clare and I brush our teeth together every night before she goes to bed. I used to sit her on my lap and help her brush her teeth, and by the end of the ordeal, neither of us were very happy, and neither of us had clean teeth. So I thought it might be better for her to watch me do it. It worked, and really, it's pretty funny to watch someone mimic you brushing your teeth. Please note, the same cannot be said for dancing. That's just downright humbling. And another story for another time.

So now that's our post-bath routine (brushing, not dancing), me with my blue Oral-B and Mary Clare with her pink Oral-B. Being pink, it's natural that Mary Clare's toothbrush has a Disney princess on it. You know, to up the fancy factor. This particular model is sporting a rather fetching photo of Belle. Since she's only two, Mary Clare is not yet familiar with the Disney princesses. But, since she is two, she's starting to ask a lot of questions, namely, "What's that?"

As we're brushing away the other night, Mary Clare points to Belle and asks the inevitable:

M: What's that?
D: That's Belle. She's a beautiful princess.
M: Mama?
D: Oh, you think she looks like mama?
M: No. No Mama. 

It was, of course, a very emphatic no, and it was clear from both the way she said it and the way she immediately resumed brushing her teeth that there wouldn't be any further discussions on the matter.

Naturally, Chip overheard the entire conversation and called out from the office, "I saw that one coming a mile away."

Sadly, I did not. Hope springs eternal, I guess. Even when you're clearly not the princess type.

My girl

Okay, never mind the fact that she's smiling at her dad. Or that she definitely favors her dad. She's my beautiful baby girl, and I love every inch of her, right down to the gap between her Chiclet-like teeth. 

In case you're wondering what's going on in the above photo, Mary Clare's  looking for her other pocket. Pockets are a very big deal to the toddler set, and it really stinks when you can't find them or clothing makers design them too small for even your teeny-tiny hand. Rest assured that dada came to the rescue and found a pocketed home for that forlorn hand. He's good like that.

Spring sprucing

There are flowers on the front porch and the welcome mat was swapped out to something more seasonally appropriate. Hell, there are even wreaths on the door. It's spring, baby!

And how about that new door hardware (installation progress/management shots here)? Not too shabby, right? And definitely a far cry from its spray paint-covered brass predecessor. Last but not least, of course, is the equally snazzy doorbell cover Chip installed yesterday. Ring-a-ling-a-ding-dong, indeed.

Morning mug

Granted, Alexandra is probably the happiest baby I know, but come on. This photo was taken at 7:30 in the morning. Even she is taking it to the extreme.

Productive

The weekend was productive, and Casa TB is looking good, both inside and out.

Inside, closets were stripped bare, shoes were sorted (and counted in a judgmental fashion), eyebrows were raised, promises of divorce were made, donation bags were filled and Rubbermaid bins were sorted and stacked. The best part, besides Chip and I remaining married, of course, is that there is now closet space for Mary Clare's duds in her new room. 

Outside, mulch was purchased. And spread. And then more was purchased. Because that's how it works with mulch. Double points to Chip for first laying down the compost I carefully tended to the past year. And quadruple points to my dad for not only lending us his truck, but for making the two trips to Valley Park for composted leaf mulch, and for helping Chip spread it on the beds. 

So yes, things are looking good. And more importantly, things are getting crossed off the list.

Another working weekend

Stop fooling around and get to work!

It's shaping up to be another productive weekend over at TB. There's mulch to spread, closets to empty, clothes to move, flowers to pot and lawn to mow. And with a tyrannical toddler in the house (she makes quite the project manager), rest assured that no mess shall be left behind.

Swoon

I love my husband for many reasons, but right now, if you were to ask me what I love best about Chip, it would be that he always agrees when I say, "I think we should eat out/order in tonight."

Part of me knows that he says yes without hesitation because servers never force you to eat salads you don't want. Another part of me knows it's because delivery fare is a smidge more indulgent than, say, grilled chicken breasts with steamed broccoli.

Whatever the reasons might be, I love that Chip knows the best thing he can do is say yes. And not offer to cook. And certainly not suggest that surely there's something in the house we can make for dinner.

So maybe the real reason I love him is because by golly, that man is smart.

En garde, list

Sadly, there is little I enjoy more in life than crossing items off of a list. Grocery lists, work lists, Christmas lists, RSVP lists and the holy grail of all lists, to do lists -- I love them one and all. So imagine my delight and Chip's dismay when in a mere 15-minute span, I knocked off nearly everything in the purchases category of the ever-expanding pre-baby to do list.

The second video monitor camera, double stroller, stroller organizer, bottles, nipples (sorry, Andy), wash cloths, changing pad liners and cotton swaddle me blankets are all en route to TB, and I couldn't be more relieved. Snaps to me and my MasterCard.

I'm trying my best to savor this feeling of accomplishment. This feeling of contentment. Because you and I both know that by the end of the week, the list will be back to its previous length and I'll be back to my hot panicked mess of a self.

We pregnant women talk in terms of weeks, thankyouvermuch

Just like the freaky mind readers at Babycenter.com predicted, now that we're officially in the third trimester, I am randomly plagued by things like restless leg syndrome, shooting lower back pains and the feeling that someone has taken a chest spreader to my ribs. Okay, the last one is all me, but the rest is all Babycenter. And I hate it when those bastards are right.

As I leapt (read: hauled) myself out of bed the other night for bathroom break #37 of the day, I was greeted by a searing pain in my lower back that actually made me yelp. While hobbling around the room rubbing my back, I said to Chip, "Well, the next few weeks are certainly going to be fun around here." His response, while sympathetic, was not what I had hoped. "The next few weeks? Unless you're planning to have this baby early, I think we're talking more like the next few months."

After assuring Chip that no, I hadn't paid Dr. Simckes to expedite the delivery, I also assured him that if he's smart, he will join me in using weeks as the official baby countdown-o-meter.

Unless, of course, I am freaking out about something that has to be done pre-baby. In that case, he would be wise to speak in terms of months, as in "But babe, we have two-and-a-half months to go! Plenty of time for me to mulch all the beds, hang a new front porch light, clean the basement, install a new doorbell cover, pull out and wash all of the baby gear, visit Great-Grandma Lindh in Chicago, finish Mary Clare's new room and have new carpeting installed." Just speaking hypothetically, of course.

Good weekend

I think it's safe to give this weekend two enthusiastic, chocolate-covered thumbs up.

Friday night we indulged in the classic Lenten meal of frozen fish sticks and blue box mac-n-cheese, and then hustled into the car for an impromptu visit to Home Depot. Upon arrival, Mary Clare, having obviously heard me tell Chip that we didn't need to bring diapers because it would be "just a quick trip," promptly gripped the paint display, grunted for all she was worth and cleared out the paint aisle in seconds flat.
 

Seriously, mom? I thought that little Home Depot incident was between us.

You're wondering where the good part of this weekend comes in, I imagine? Well, then, let's skip over the rest of Mary Clare's Home Depot aisle-clearing exploits and fast forward to Saturday. I arose at the early-for-me hour of 7 a.m., enabling Chip and I to both check off items on the to do list that make me feel infinitely better about Baby Lindh's impending arrival. Chip spent six straight hours in the nursery (the good man even asked to have his lunch served there), and the room is now awash in Velvet Dream, an ever-so-lovely navy blue. While he painted the day away, Mary Clare and I hit JoAnn's in search of fabric to use in her new room. After keeping my mom on the phone for close to an hour straight and feeding Mary Clare her weight in goldfish crackers, we left with everything required to complete the room.

Sunday was by far the best day of the weekend, because, well, we actually did something fun. We like to do that every once in awhile in the hopes that Mary Clare will protest slightly less every time we make her leave Nana and Papa's house. After church and breakfast we hit the Missouri Botanical Gardens, and because we were there by 10 a.m., even the Children's Garden was blissfully crowd free. And because I pulled the ultimate rookie move and left with a camera bag stocked with not one, but two, completely dead batteries, Mary Clare was able to enjoy some photo-free play time. But lest you think I'm completely off my game, I did remember the Flip, so I was able to record a few moments. I mean, thank heavens. I would hate to be reported to DCFS for not properly capturing something as momentous as my impatient little problem solver at work:

And we wrapped up our weekend with chocolate-covered faces. Which is what  you get when you have a pregnant mommy who now makes regular pit stops in the cookie aisle, and a toddler who savors every last bit of her blissfully fruit-free dessert.

Give it ten years

This morning, as Chip got ready for work and Mary Clare relaxed on the bathroom scale with a pile of books by her side, I overheard the following exchange.

M: What's that?
C: Daddy's taking his allergy medicine.
M: Hmm?
C: So mommy stays off his back.
M: No, me.
C: You want the medicine?
M: No.
C: You want mommy on your back?
M: Yes.
C: Well, let's wait and see if you still feel that way when you're a teenager.

I then walked into the bathroom to break up the comedy routine, and before I could even give Chip a withering look, Mary Clare ran up to me, turned around and started patting her back and squealing, "Mama, mama!" So I tickled her back, exclaimed, "I'm on your back! I'm on your back!" and she ran off, happy as a clam. 

We'll see if it works that well when she's 13.