Little Miss Sunshine

That's me today. Why you ask?
Because we leave tomorrow for Captiva Island for the week.
Whoo-Hoo!!

Along for the ride are Mister Mischief, Mister Noisy, Miss Bossy,
Miss Chatterbox, Mister Chatterbox and Mister Impossible.

Wish me luck.

Mommy's got some issues

I am the farthest thing from a stage mom. I let Lily go to school in some incredibly questionable outfits that she's picked out herself. I barely brush her hair and never do anything fancier than a sloppy pony tail (poor girl has a mom who never learned how to braid.) Toddlers with earrings make me cringe and I would rather eat blindfolded at a Chinese buffet than enter her in a beauty pageant. But, there is one feature of hers that I am dying to groom.

Girl's got some serious eyebrows. It is something she has unfortunately inherited from both Jeff and I. I can't even imagine what they will look like when she hits puberty (actually I can, I remember mine, and it wasn't pretty.) I am dying to get my hands on them and clean them up. I've decided 10 is an acceptable age to introduce my trusty Tweezerman, but it is going to be torture to wait that long.

I have issues with the baby too... Evan was born with a beautiful thick head of dark hair. Last week it started falling out and has now left him half bald. That wouldn't be so bad if some pieces weren't almost a foot long already. It has resulted in a very unfortunate baby comb over, in addition to the major bald spot in the back. I am so tempted to give him a little baby trim, but have thus far resisted. Is 4 months really too early for a haircut?

And it doesn't end there. Ben has bumpy arms that I'm just dying to exfoliate. Evan has the occasional baby whitehead that simply begs to be popped. I use q-tips to clean their ears (Yes, Dad, I remember the rule, sorry) and let's not even talk about cradle cap. I just can't help myself.

As I write this, my hair is slathered in an olive oil/egg yolk mixture (really the best remedy for dry hair) and my face is covered in a moisturizing mask. And while I think nothing of leaving the house in an old painting t-shirt and yoga pants, I would never let my eye brows go ungroomed. I realize it doesn't make too much sense. Clearly, Mommy has some issues and I am surely passing them on to my innocent offspring.

What else is a good mother to do?

Even my devil can be an angel (sometimes)

Lily has been on a roll this week. It began Monday with her well-check doctor's visit. I had been dreading and rescheduling since the beginning of February. Usually her visits are pure hell. Knowing that this was an immunization appointment, I felt sick for days leading up to it. She totally shocked and amazed me-- she was cooperative, sweet and calm. It could not have gone any smoother. You were amazing today, Lil, I told her over ice cream after her shots. She responded simply that four year olds are good at the doctors. Ooookay, I'll take it.

Her teachers raved about her behavior at school today. She listened, napped and helped out (not the reviews I am used to getting, unfortunately.) She was sweet to Ben at home, playing with him, sharing voluntarily, and even calling him a "cool dude" in his sunglasses. She willingly put on her pajamas, brushed her teeth and went up stairs.

After we'd read her bedtime story, we had a talk about how much more pleasant it is to have her like this. She's happy, I'm happy, Ben's happy, her teachers are happy. It's wonderful. Let's remember how nice it is to act this way. Can you do that, babe?
Ok, Mommy, she says. But I think maybe I will forget, just for tomorrow.

Great. Should be a fun day.

My children are little devils

When my children are playing contently together for more than 10 minutes , they are inevitably doing something they know they shouldn't be. Every single time, without fail. Evidence A. They discovered how to turn on the garden hose, which now is the most exciting toy ever. Unfortunately, it only seems like a great idea when they are fully dressed. Once I put them in bathing suits, it somehow loses it's allure.
Of course.
Last year, Ben was suspiciously quiet while I was on the phone. I found him in the bathroom, elbow deep in the toilet, happy as a clam. The toilet was overflowing with bubbles from the hand soap he had dumped in there. He was "cleaning" it with the bubbles and singing to himself. I just left him in there (it was just too nice having an actual phone conversation!) and it occupied him for well over an HOUR. I have yet to find another activity that occupies him so well, and often truly wonder if I should offer toilet cleaning as an indoor play activity.

I've caught them "mopping" the floor with a box of wipes, making forts out of my expensive couch cushions, applying my my makeup all over their faces, tasting dog food... The list goes on...

If it keeps them busy, happy, and safe, I'm ok with it. They are enjoying each other's company, and being creative with their play.
And If I end up with a sparkling clean toilet, that's just icing on the cake.

My trip to the mall

Dear fashion industry,
I've never professed to be particularly fashionable. I pretty much wear what I like regardless of what's in style at the moment. I don't read fashion magazines, or care what the hottest celebs are wearing. Sometimes, though, even a girl like me has got to shop. Being in the midst of losing baby weight and desperate for clothing in sizes I don't currently own, I hit the mall. What I found was quite disturbing, and I am begging you to rethink this horrid trend.

The entire mall had turned into one giant maternity store. There was literally no difference between what was on the racks and what I have in my closet as souvenirs from my three pregnancies. The tops were shapeless and over-sized. The skirts, stretchy and flowy. I could have stuffed a watermelon under the dresses-- even the size 0 plastic mannequins looked chunky. As someone who has been pregnant/postpartum, more often than not for the past 5 years, I totally resent this fashion trend. Once you've been carrying a child, and are no longer, the last thing you want is to still appear to be. And if you've never been, do you really want to be a guessing game?


Now, there are some aspects of maternity attire that I would love if you could bring mainstream. Cute, elastic waisted jeans, for instance. They are miraculous- your legs look super long and skinny and combined with a big sweater, no one needs to know about the Buddha belly underneath. Pants with enough give to accommodate an extra 20 pounds? Amazing, and just perfect to wear for that 6 course meal. Maternity underwear is another--- how refreshing to not have it digging, riding or slipping. Bras that don't bulge and shift? Yes! But enough with those damn tops.

Let's leave them to Pea in the Pod and Mimi Maternity. You can stick with making clothes that are cut too slim and don't fit the general population. I look forward to voicing my opinion on those.

Thank you.

My chubby little love bug

My hair: A story of love & hate

My mother in law is here for a visit. Not only do the kids get to be spoiled by Grammy for 3 days, but I get all the free babysitting I want. I'm taking advantage of this and getting my (very neglected) hair done today. For lack of a better blog subject, I thought I'd take this opportunity to take a walk down my hair's memory lane... It's a very colorful journey.

There is nothing that causes me as much grief as my hair. We have quite a love/hate relationship, my hair and I. The hate aspect began at age 13. Until then, my hair had treated me pretty well. I had adorable ringlets as a baby, and it straightened out nicely for most of my childhood. It was was a nice golden blond, thick with a nice wave.
No complaints from me.

When I was 13, my world was rocked over night. Hormones are a bitch and I pretty much woke up one morning with curly hair--it was dreadful. Nobody in my family had curls and I received no guidance or education in the use of gel and deep conditioner. I suffered for 3 long years until I discovered LA Looks deep hold gel in high school. My hair may have been crunchy and looked soaking wet 24/7, but the frizz was gone. Life was good again.

Soon after, I entered the world of hair color. It began innocently with some "Sun-In" the summer of '93 and escalated to full highlights when I began college. During those 4 years, it went through phases of being platinum blond (with a lovely tinge of green) black, red, a horrible shade of orange, highlighted, skunky, chunky... pretty much every shade it could be. Around graduation I finally had it right again.

Given that Jeff and I move pretty much every year (no, we aren't military, we just act like it) I am constantly having to find new hairdressers. My hair is crazy thick and it never reacts the way the hairdresser thinks it will. Getting my hair done is always an all day ordeal, the hairdresser will start out chatty and friendly and then inevitably turn cold and irritable when they realize just how much
hair I actually have.

A few months ago, pregnant and hormonal, I decided I'd had enough. I've been coloring my hair for well over a decade and I was sick of the time and money it took. I bought a box of Nice and Easy and vowed to make my days just that. With Jeff rolling his eyes (this was hardly the first time I attempted at home color, and it never ended well,) I took the plunge. It was a disaster-- uneven, orange... really bad. And the worst part? I now how stubborn greys that didn't take to the color. Kick me while I'm down, huh?

So, back to salon. This time, though, I found someone who got it. Katie is a heaven sent celestial being who was somehow able to bring my hair back to the color it should be. The color it was when I was 2. And in record time. Getting my hair done in no longer a traumatic experience, and it only takes 3 hours. I will not be moving again, not because I love this area so much (which I really do,) but it's taken me 12 years to find a good hairdresser, and I'm not giving her up.

While I do feel sad that Lily did not inherit my curls, I am happy that she will be spared years of suffering. It has been a long, bumpy road, but I can finally say that I am happy with my hair. And I will be, that is, until I inevitably decide it's time to go dark again.

Why I should not own a crock pot

I like think of myself as a Martha Stewart of sorts. A younger, hipper, more fun Martha. A Katie Brown, but less irritating. I like to think I can do it all, and well.

Tonight, my bubble was burst. Big time.

Jeff is out of town and I had friends over for dinner. I cooked a pot roast in the crock. The crock pot is an ingenious invention for working folks who can "set it and forget it." I don't fit either of those descriptions. Not only am I home all day, but I am incapable of not fussing with food I cook. I like to taste it, add something, try it again... To make matters worse, I began cooking it a 6am, adding 6 hours to it's recommended cooking time.

This is what it looked like:


Danielle, who was actually in the army, equated my dinner to army slop. Her husband opted to eat rice with butter. That was it- just plain white rice on a plate.

It was absolutely humiliating. Such a thing would never happen to Martha. Even if it had, she would have been able to whip something delicious up, her unsuspecting guests never knowing the disaster they were almost served. But I just couldn't... I didn't even have any wine in the house to take the edge off. It was my lowest hostess moment ever.

But the kids had a blast, running around outside, jumping off the beds, freeze dancing... And that's what's important, I suppose. It's not the impressive dinners that the kids will remember fondly, it's the friends, and the fun times they shared.

I can tell you this: I won't be making pot roast any time soon. And when I finally do, I vow not to fuss with it, to cook it the recommended time, and definitely not invite company for dinner.

My little cowboy's new bed

When I found out I was having a second boy, less than 2 years after Ben,
I daydreamed about my boys sharing a bedroom. I saw myself rolling my eyes at the condition they'd keep it... Lily refusing to step foot in the "stinky boy's room," a "no girl's allowed" sign sloppily taped to the door. They'd sleep in bunk beds, tell secrets late into the night and be forever best friends. It was a sweet (albeit, smelly) vision.
Last night, my dreams were shattered.

Ben's new bunk bed arrived yesterday. I admired it, unmade, still envisioning it holding my two little boys. And then it was time to make it. Oh.My.God. I worked up more of a sweat doing that than I ever did birthing him. Is there an easy way to make a top bunk? Because I couldn't figure it out. Granted, I am not someone who normally enjoys making beds; mine remains unmade most days. Now I realize that mine is a pleasure cruise compared to this hell. The thought off stripping and remaking the top bunk each week is unbearable. The boys will just have to become best friends in their own rooms.

It took me over 45 minutes to make it, all said and done. To add salt to my wounds, Jeff walks in, making three observations:

1. "I hate the way you put the blanket over the pillow, not under" (Did you not see the scowl on my face? You think now is the time to mention this information?)
   
2. "You took the tags off the mattress? You can't do that!!" (Is he for real?!)
   
3. And, finally, "You made a bed- what's the big deal?"
   

Jeffrey, dear, I did not make a bed. I made this bed. And it sucked.
Next time, it's all yours.

And, for your viewing pleasure, pictures of my little cowboy in his brand new big boy room.

Scenes from a tantrum

These are pictures from yesterday morning. The morning started out whiny and spiralled quickly down hill when it was time to get dressed.
I didn't get to all of the laundry this past weekend and the pickings were slim. We've been on a dress kick and I had the audacity to lay out pants and a sweater.

You can imagine why they were so offensive; they were neither pink, nor purple, had no glitter and (are you ready for this?) were blue. Blue, apparently, is a boy color and boy colors are so ugly.

The tantrum lasted a full 30 minutes. It ended only because she remembered she could wear her new princess socks (thank you, Target $1 spot-- that was money well spent.) Suddenly the pants didn't seem so bad. In fact, they looked pretty good, if she did say so herself, and she was happy. Off to school with a smile on her tear stained face.

Oy. I am so looking forward to the teenage years.

The battle of the baby weight, round 3

"I'm not really fat, I just keep having babies"
I'm thinking about getting t-shirts printed up. It has quite a ring to it, no?

Lily asked me last week, quite excitedly, if there was another baby in my tummy. When I said no, she responded,"sure looks like it, Mommy."
Thanks, Lil. Love you, babe.

Evan is now 4 months old and I am having a hell of a time with the weight. Impressively, I manage to gain 50+ pounds with each pregnancy, despite puking non-stop for the first trimester. It's actually a medical marvel. I do totally deserve to be suffering now; I did consume enough onion rings, pad thai and nutella to last me well into my 40s. Between the stretch marks, nausea, insomnia/exhaustion, discomfort, stress etc,
it was my (hershey kiss filled) silver lining.

My last pregnancy weight came off easily and I was back into my Seven jeans by the 6 month mark. I could even zip them up standing and breathe! It lasted 8 fleeting months and I was knocked up again.
So, here I go, one more time, buying baby carrots in bulk and not eating a thing past 6 pm.

I'm moody, it sucks, and I am longing for the days of eating without abandon. But, it was fun while it lasted. And I would do it all again...
What I got from those 9 months are certainly worth suffering for, and you really can't beat nutella from a spoon at 3am.

Edited to add:
I love the internet. Now you can buy that shirt I spoke about.
Cool, huh? I sure think so.

My breath is always minty fresh

The above was the sight I walked into this morning. I'm sure most people would find this gross. It is. For me, however, this scene was profoundly disturbing. It will be forever etched in my brain.

My name is Jill and I am a toothbrush freak. I change toothbrushes weekly. If I were rich, I would have my maid replace mine after every single brushing. I think it would be a total luxury to never use one more than once.

I have inherited this toothbrush-freakiness from my father (along with a myriad of other oddities.) I recall being about 7 and using my Dad's toothbrush because I couldn't find my own. He totally flipped out and I thought he was nuts. I was his child, for god's sake... his own flesh and blood, WTF?

Flash forward: I will not let anyone use my tooth brush. Ever. This drives Jeff crazy. Sometimes to get under my skin he will tell me he's used mine. Why he thinks this is funny, I have no idea. It only causes me to once again open up a new one and marvel at his stunted sense of humor. Oddly, I will share towels with Jeff and the kids, recognizing that they have dried off areas far more undesirable than teeth. My blog, my issues, thank you very much.

I am convincing myself that was a first. Never before have little hands gone fishing in the toilet bowl using my toothbrush as a pole. Never have they played "Mommy" and used mine to clean their teeth. Never have they rubbed their grubby fingers with it... Today was the first time ever and I was fortunate to have spotted it before it made it's way back to the sink. Ignorance is bliss.

From now on I will be keeping my toothbrush out of the kid's reach.
And my toilet immaculate, just in case.

We interrupt your regularly scheduled program...

People, people... I know you're out there. I can see you on Google Analytics. Why so shy? There are a few of you out there who are grasping the whole comments concept (you just happen to be my oldest friend, fellow blogger-obsessed new one, and brother)

It's really not hard (I'm talking to you, Dad) Just click under the posts, where it says,"0 people who actually care", and put your 2 cents out there, for the whole world to see (well, the twelve people who actually read this.) I get e-mail alerts when somebody makes a comment and it's a nice break from the usual spam that's filling up my inbox. And it makes me happy, so c'mon... Let me know you're out there.

Thank you. Your regularly scheduled programming will now resume. I'll continue my fantasy life as Carrie Bradshaw, typing away on my little Mac, and you can expect a brilliant and witty post shortly.

The best flowers are free flowers

Despite my disdain for over priced floral bouquets, I really do love fresh flowers. The best of all flowers are those picked from my own yard (actually, even better are those picked from other people's, or even better still- public property, but I would never do that.)

Lily and Ben each picked me a fistful of daffodils yesterday. I lured them inside with the promise that we'd photograph their flowers and post the pictures here (they get a big kick out of seeing themselves on the screen.) Lily filled a vase with water and her sweet bouquet is below. Those are Ben's underneath. He took my direction of "putting them in water" quite literally and stuffed his in Penelope's water bowl while I was dealing with his sister. He was quite impressed with himself for doing it alone and proudly pointed them out to me.

I have to give him credit-- he did put them in water. Since turning 2
his hearing has become quite selective and he rarely listens to me
these days. I'm happy to take what I can get.

What's being said in my house

1. "I have Ben's poop stuck between my toes and I can't get it out!!!!"
(Screamed by Lily last week after Ben thought the tub would be a nice place to take a dump. I won't get into specifics--- I do recognize that my latest entries have involved plumber's butt and finding snot on the walls. I will say that I was cursing Jeff for working late that night.
Really, not a pretty sight.)

2. "I'm tired, I want to go to bed"
(By Lily at 7:30pm. Jeff and I looked at each other incredulously-- this child has not gone to bed before 9:30 in YEARS. The sentiment was short lived, and she was up well after 10pm, but the statement has been noted for the record.)

3. "You are a beautiful, sweet, nice mommy"
(By Lily, after Ben called me "mean, scary mommy" for the seventh time. It was followed by "Wasn't that nice of me? Can I have a treat now?")

4. "I want Miss Rhonda to be my new mommy. You are so mean"
(By Lily after I would not give her the previously mentioned treat. It is both a positive and negative that she can be so easily bought with candy)
(To clarify, Miss Rhonda is her ballet teacher, who always gives her treats. She also only sees the kids for 30 minutes at a time, so it's easy to play the good cop.)

5. "Roooooooooarrrrrrrr"
(By Ben, who thinks he is half monster- or wild animal, not sure which)

6. "My panties are wet, but I didn't pee-pee, I just don't wipe so good. It's ok, don't look"
(By Lily upon returning from the bathroom, where for the record, she didn't wash her hands. She was given yet another lesson on proper wiping and washing. Lovely.)

7. "Maybe I will get that vasectomy"
(Muttered by Jeff after a long weekend of general chaos/noise/craziness. He has since taken it back, but I'm sure I will hear it once again come Sunday.)

My 4 year old has plumber's butt

One of my favorite things to do is to sneak into my kid's classrooms and observe them interacting without knowing I'm there. Last week I happily watched Benji sing a medley of songs and do the "Hokey Pokey" for twenty minutes while hiding in a corner. I watch Lily play house, do art projects and boss around her classmates. It's so fun to see them operating on their own, without each other or Jeff and I.

However, there is one scene that I hate to walk into, and inevitably it happens at least once a week. And that's the view of Lily's crack. Last week I approached her, playing in the sandbox, totally oblivious that she was mooning everybody in sight. Unless she is wearing elastic waisted pants, the poor kid absolutely can not hold her pants up (and I'm not talking about a slight peek, she's showing it ALL.) It's a sight that makes me laugh and cringe at once. This is not a fashion statement I'd like my daughter to be known for. Her teacher actually pulled me aside several weeks ago and asked me to buy her a belt. Apparently they don't appreciate the view at school either. I listened and tried belts, smaller sized pants, larger sized pants, pants that promise not to fall... It's hopeless.

I'm thankful that spring is approaching and she can once again exclusively wear dresses. I will retire the adorable jeans, cords and cargo pants until the fall, when we will try once again. In the meantime, I do have a sink that needs professional plumbing, should I miss that lovely view.

P.S. The picture is of Ben's little bottom. I felt I needed to illustrate this story, and he's 2 and it's still cute. I don't think he'll suffer the same emotional scarring Lily would if I published pictures of her like this.
At least I hope not.

In Memory of Del

In memory of Del, whose tail always wagged at the sight of children,
could never resist a game of fetch, and was a loving and devoted
companion to my mom for the past 7 years.
He will be forever missed.

Score: Jeff 2, Jill 1

I've made our children's looks into a competition.
And it appears that I'm losing.

I seriously resent Jeff for having a mini-me in Lily. I carried her for 9 months and I get nothing??! No blond curls? No green eyes? No birthmark above the lip? It's so not fair. Jeff was out with her several months ago and someone actually asked, "Did her mother contribute any genes to her at all?" It's a good thing I wasn't there or he would have gotten a swift kick in the balls. And, mister, she does have my freaky double jointed thumb. So there.

I was elated that Ben took after my family. He looks nothing like Jeff,
and remarkably like my brother (and oddly like our old UPS man, but that's another story.) He has light green/blue eyes, my cheeks and even the same skin bumps on his arms. Ha! So, we were even.
Life was good.

And then there were 3. Evan came out sort of a mix. He was much darker than Ben, but didn't have Lily's huge brown eyes either. So there was hope. Everyday now, however, he is looking more and more like his sister. Not exactly the same; his eyes are turning a shade of green(!), his nose turns up more, and his chin is slightly different. But don't think there is any doubt who he resembles more.

And I'm pissed.

I have a nose picker

Jeff feels my posts have been getting a bit sappy and all come around to how much I adore my (most precious, gorgeous) children. So, in an effort to be well rounded, here's one that I can find minimal redeeming or charming qualities about. You can thank Jeff later for his sage advice.

Let me preface the story: I do understand that the dilemma of what to do with ones snot/boogers/dried nasal mucus (what is the proper term when writing about this? I suppose there isn't one) is a tough one. When I was young our family's cleaning lady had a serious talk with my parents regarding what was going on behind my headboard. She found it so disgusting that she threatened to stop cleaning my room unless it ended. Jeff had a "boogey witch" who would magically take them all from behind the bed. (Are we meant for each other, or what?) So, I am familiar with this issue. However, it doesn't make it any more pleasant to deal with.

Anyway... about 3 months ago I started noticing little green sticky objects on the wall. There was no doubt what they were. Lily and I had a discussion about the proper way to take care of this. It got better and thanks to the fabulous Mr. Clean eraser, all evidence was removed. Several weeks later she had a cold and my advise went out the window (well, actually behind the bed) Suffice it to say that I needed to do some intense scraping & repainting of that wall. Another serious conversation. A big box of tissues and a trash can next to her bed. The next several weeks were perfect. No minor wall repairs, and she was going through boxes of tissues. I figured our cleaning woman was emptying them from the trash and my Lily was such a big, responsible girl.

Until the night my mother in law happened to look under the bed. There were weeks worth of tissues that had accumulated and now covered the entire floor under her bed and were skimming the top of the mattress. My girl doesn't do anything half way- I can take credit for that (ooops- sorry- slight bit of parental pride there). In retrospect, I do have to admit that I never specified where the tissues go. I thought the trash can implied it, but apparently not. Another conversation specifically about disposal of the tissue. Lily heard me, and I am happy to report that in recent weeks there have been no snot sightings and that I happily empty her trash can every few days.

Lately, I have started to notice Ben having some fascination with his nose and anticipate another series of fun filled conversations. This time though, I am more prepared. I'm armed with my Mr. Clean, a box of tissues and of course, a trash can.

Do you really lose brain cells by having children?

I am sharing this picture of last month's birthday cake for two reasons:

1. I was not blogging back then, and did not have an opportunity
to show it off, and
2. Until now the true story of the cake has been untold.

A little history:
I have always been a bit of a ditz. A little flaky. A blonde, you might say. I think it's part of my charm, but I'm sure those closest to me would disagree. Well, it's only getting worse with time. It was marginal before kids, now it's a dominant personalty trait. I think #3 pushed me over the edge into Nutsville.

Last week, for example, I spent 20 extra minutes at a gas station frantically searching for my keys which had mysteriously disappeared when I went to start the car. Turns out I threw them in the trash along with the goldfish, animal crackers, napkins, receipts (and numerous other oddities) that had accumulated on the floor of my Oddyessy. (Yes, it totally serves me right for keeping my car such a pit) I arrived at Ben's school frantic and reeking of trash. Not a good way to start a Monday morning, but i digress...

On to the cake. Lily has a February birthday, so I embrace the Valentine timing and go a bit heart crazy. It's girly and fun and I love it. I was really exited to make her cake, which she requested be chocolate with pink frosting. I happily started baking at 5 am. The cake was finished cooking and on the counter cooling when my excitement took over and I started icing it about an hour too soon. Of course I ended up with a cake dripping in melted shades of pink. It was not a pretty site. In my state of new-mommy sleep deprivation, my thought was "I need to get the frosting off the cake and let it cool" Logical, right? Here's where the lack of brain cells kick in...My next step was to stick the entire cake under the sink to "wash" the frosting off. Yea... that was smart. Obviously, I ended up with a sink full of soaking wet cake and a major mess in the kitchen.

Needless to say, I started over. I told everyone the first one burned and paced myself wisely the second time. It came out well, tasted great and nobody was the wiser (until now)

So, two words of advice: water will not "wash" off frosting (but you knew that.) And, to those child-less folks, enjoy those brain cells now, because it's all down hill from here.

The munchkins

Ben is finally showing an interest in the baby. I have been waiting for
this for months, but now I'm not sure why! Evan now has both siblings
in his face at all times. Fortunately, he adores both and spends his time beaming back at them. Had they been behind the camera, rather than me, I assure you his chubby scowl would have been a smile (how sick
of me does he look in those last shots?!) Poor kid.

I don't like this idea

I was watching Oprah yesterday and saw a preview for Thursday's show:
"A happily married couple, living in a normal neighborhood in America, is expecting their first child. But there's a big twist…the husband is the one who's pregnant. How is this possible? Thomas and his wife are here in their first television interview..." Now, I'd expect this from Maury, Jerry Springer or a dozen other shows...but Oprah? C'mon.

What an all around bad idea- foremost, obviously, it's pretty freaky. More so, can you imagine life for his poor wife? Men are notorious for being babies-- I know mine is... every cold is a travesty. He voices every stomach pain, bowel movement and emotion. In great detail. He could never deal with the aches, pains, ups & downs and general icky-ness of pregnancy. It would be unbearable for both of us.

As much as I disliked being pregnant, I wouldn't trade the experience for the world. That's one of the perks of being a woman. I'll never know what it's like too pee standing up with a quick unzip of my fly, but I got to carry three children.

You can't have it all. And I really don't mind sitting on the toilet.

Edited to add: Upon some research, I have discovered that he is trans-gendered... So, he was a woman, now a man, but kept the reproductive parts? I think? Not sure how he pees, but I know that I
want to be the partner to carry the babies.

Further edited to add: I removed the picture because it was freaking me out. But, should you choose, you can see it here.