The way it was supposed to be...

For the record, I had really high hopes for this post. We are in Pennsylvania for the week spending time with family. The kids are having a blast with their super cool cousins and I'm thrilled to have help not strangling entertaining them. We all went out to a strawberry patch yesterday. I was really excited-- I hadn't been in years. It was a glorious day and the kids love strawberries. To top it off, the blog potential (are you sensing an addiction?) was huge. A winning combination, no?

I had the scene set out in my head: They'd happily pick the berries, their faces shining in the bright sun. Then, grinning ear to ear, they'd plop down on the grass, scarf down the sweet berries and be the picture perfect little red faced cherubs. The sky was blue. The fields were a vibrant green. The kids looked adorable in their matching polo shirts. Oh, the things I could write! The pictures I could share! It would be perfect!

Keep dreaming, Jill. Ben didn't crack a smile the whole time. He scowled and whined and refused to move unless carried. Lily insisted on de-stemming every berry before plucking them into the basket, thus ruining the gorgeous red/green contrast nature provided. Despite each adoring strawberries (and later that night stuffing their faces) neither kid wanted to taste a single one at the patch. I begged. I pleaded. I stuffed my face. No luck.

Not to fear, dear readers, I have a solution. I present you with "Stock Baby," my imaginary child for the day. Unlike my own, he cooperates for the camera. He is quiet, clean and costs a mere $250. He doesn't complain or need changing or bite his siblings. He is the perfect subject.

I'm thinking of leaving my camera at home today--I'm sure Stock Baby smiled more at the zoo than my kids will! So, get used to him; I think he's a keeper.

B is for Brave

Ever since Benji got his big boy bed a few months ago, Lily has been pestering us to have a "sleepover." Now that the days are long and lazy, with no reason to rush up in the morning, we agreed and have tucked them in together the last couple of nights. The site of them curled up sleeping next to each other is really heartwarming. Although they do bicker, pinch, punch, bite and scream, they really have a sweet little relationship (especially when we're not looking.)

Despite being the first born, Lily is a bit of a p*u*s*s*y. Sorry to use the word, but she is. Ben is the one who will dunk his head under the water. He's the one who will get the first twirl around the room. Or try to tackle the jungle gym. Or step into a dark room. Whenever the notion of sleeping at grandma's house comes up, it's always followed by, "Is Ben going to come too?"

Earlier in the week, Lily needed something in the basement and asked Ben to go with her (ok, "Ily!" he replied) Why can't you just go alone, babe, I asked? Her Response: Because I'm scared of the basement and Ben makes me brave.

And he does. She is willing to do so much more with him by her side. And, as their mom, it's pretty cool to see.

A week, in summary.

What did we learn this week?
• That a little boy should not play outside near a hose.
• That dancing in the rain is is a great way to kill a half hour.
• That old friends with new babies are a really good thing.
• That Ben is capable of throwing a 45 minute tantrum over a cereal bar.
• That a rainbow is the perfect way to end a too long day.
(but you could have told all me that, right?)

Life as a Third Child

Lily's first food: Peas
Ben's first food: Sweet potatoes
Evan's first food: Book
(This should answer the question: What is the baby doing while I blog?)

And so it begins...

At four and a half, she's already begun the eye-roll and the sing-songy three syllable "Mo-o-om."

I've said it before and I'll say it again; I live in fear of her teenage years. (And, for the record, I had the audacity to ask her to take off her wet bathing suit so she didn't track water inside. I am so annoying.)

A Kiss Is Just A Kiss

There are two camps of people, the cheek kissers and the lip kissers.
I'm not talking about romantic, open mouthed kisses, but simple pecks between close family and friends. I was raised a cheek kisser. My Aunt Sis was always a lip kisser and I remember thinking it seemed more loving than cheek kisses. I've always kissed my children on their sweet little lips, and been quite happy with my choice.

Until yesterday. Yesterday I was playing a little game where I kiss the baby on the lips and pull away to form an "O" with my mouth. He laughs hysterically and we do this for probably a total of an hour a day.
It's an easy way to get a laugh- I started it with my first born, and
it's worked for all of them.

I think this little game is over. Yesterday, just as I was forming my "O" and expecting a great belly laugh, he decided to spit up most of the contents of his bottle. Into my mouth. And it wasn't a bottle he'd just eaten, it was over an hour old. It was curdled. It was revolting. My response was to gag and spit it all over my shirt, which resulted in him laughing even harder than usual. Which was the outcome I was hoping for, but not at my stomach's expense.

Ick. Maybe cheek kissing is the way to go after all.

Happy Birthday, Jeff

I give my husband a hard time on this blog, because, as I've mentioned once or twice, he drives me crazy. But no crazy stories today, because today is his birthday, and there's no better day to pay tribute to the
man I love.

Our first date was in September of our freshman year of college. Unlike most college romances it wasn't a random hookup or quick coffee at the school cafeteria. It was a fancy Italian meal off campus that he drove us to in his friend's mom's minivan. He brought me a single rose (for friendship he said, so not to freak me out) opened the doors, paid the bill and walked me home. I knew after that night, that my college visions of
"Girls gone wild" Jill were out the window. At the young age of 18, I had found the person I was destined to spend the rest of my life with.

He wrote me cheesy love poems and I made him juvenile art projects professing our love, they wall papered our tiny dorm rooms. He bought me a star (way before Baily on Party of Five,) my first gift of jewelry and frequent bouquets. He made lists of what he loved about me and wrote about us in the university paper. When we were torn apart by his fraternity pledging (five days spent apart, the drama!) he sent me cryptic notes and we had top secret, illegal meetings. We simply could not bear to be apart. I spent a week in Mexico and a summer in Florence feeling like my heart was left an ocean away. He spent a semester the next year miserable in DC because I was back at school (and because he lived with smelly roommates named Brock and Jose, but that's another story.) Countless sappy love poems and midnight phone conversations later, we reunited in St. Louis.

He proposed to me just months after we graduated. The proposal involved a "rose petal road," an insane number of votive candles and a trail of our mementos throughout the apartment. It lead to the bedroom where Jeff was waiting with the ring. Unfortunately, being the chronically early person I am, I arrived home prematurely from my botched hair appointment to find him fresh from a run, about to shower. Sweaty and in running shorts, he got down on one knee and tearfully proposed. After he showered, we spent the next 3 hours back at the salon returning my orange hair blond before celebrating. We knew, when sharing the news, that people thought we were too young, and why rush? But we knew better.

Thirteen years, 1 dog (well, 3 sort of,) 8 homes together and 3 kids later, he still sends me mushy love letters (although they are usually in the form of e-mail and thankfully no longer rhyme.) When asked to describe himself, he always lists "husband" first. He's a phenomenal father and ridiculously thoughtful and generous. He constantly tries to surprise me and keep me on my toes. I know he would do anything for me. And I would do anything for him.

Happy birthday, my love. And to many, many, many more.

The fastest week ever

It already feels like we've been back for months. Why is that?!

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.

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.

My family: The new birth control

My brother, aka "Uncle Matt", is a fantastic uncle. He adores all 3 of my kids. He lets the "big" kids jump all over him and is tireless in his physical play. He sends really sweet cards and the most thoughtful gifts. He shows off pictures of them to all of his friends. He is always aware that I need a hand with shoes, jackets and car seats.

When he asked what Lily wanted for her birthday last month, I said she doesn't need a thing. Just send her a cookie or something. He took a day off from work to slave over homemade cookies (never mind that they looked like a 4 year old decorated them, it's the thought that counts and I thought it was the sweetest thing)

However, inevitably once he has been here for a day or two, he decides to return back to NY a day or several hours earlier. I really need to study, he says. So-and-so is coming into town last minute. I think I'm getting a cold and need rest. It may snow and be a long ride
(oh, really... in May?)

I think we serve as a good reminder to him to really enjoy his single life. It won't always be so easy, clean and care free. But it will also someday be filled with an abundance of love and joy, whenever he is ready.

For now, I'm just happy to have an extra hand, a human jungle gym and some yummy home-made cookies.

Edited to add: The things on his face are the post-it tabs from my Lucky Magazine. "I want this one", "Love these shoes", "Need this top"...
(That's what Lily is reading; picking out her must-haves for spring)
He looks totally amused by this, huh?

The joys of hand-me-downs

Despite all of my thrifty habits, ironically, I refuse to shop thrift stores. Most of my friends have no problem going that route for their kids, and they're totally right-- the clothes are in great shape and a fraction of the price. But it just grosses me out. What mystery child had a blow-out diaper in those pants? Wiped snot on those sleeves? Puked all over that dress? Gag.

I discovered the joy of my own child's hand me downs with my second son. Having had boys so close in age and during the same seasons, Evan barely has any new clothes. I love it. I love getting him dressed and remembering Benji in the same outfit. I love comparing their sizes, their smiles, their adoring sister with them... It is quite convenient to box up Ben's outgrown clothes and walk 20 steps to Evan's closet to put them away, knowing in a year I'll see them all again.

It almost makes me want to try for another girl, just to see Lily's sweet little dresses again.

Almost, I said. I'm not insane.

My new mantra

I have just discovered Etsy. A truly amazing place, and quite a time sucker (as if I needed any more of those) I just bought these handmade coasters. They feature an image from English WW2 propaganda, but I think it applies to life with small children as well.