Sun, here are your orders.

On the way home from Wegman's, Wednesday, 4:30 PM.

Her window cling sun shade proves too tempting and she begins peeling it off. Of course, then she can't get it back on. "Mommy! Mommy! I need help! My shade is falling!"

"I can't help you now. I'm driving. You'll have to wait until we get home."

The sun shines in the window and hits her face. Arms raised, she gives it the what-for.

"ENOUGH with the shining!"

(I burst out laughing. Then she did, too.)

Budding Foodie

I rushed to prepare dinner while getting ready for my rehearsal afterward. Dr. B walked in just as I loaded the plates, and we sat down to eat. She refused to come to the table, but rather than be late for Choir, I ate and ignored her. "I'll take care of her," he said. "She'll eat. I think she's..." he began to whisper, "pooping." (The potty training is still hit or miss, and the misses are often the messy type.)

I ran upstairs to change my shirt, and heard her sitting down at the table and pick up her fork. As I searched for another top to wear, she exclaimed, "Wow! Yum! This is yummy!" Hmmm... I wonder if she likes the garlic mashed potatoes? I zipped up my boots, and headed down to grab my choir folder. Maybe it's the pork chops with Roasted Garlic Rub and Dijon mustard and brown sugar glaze?

"I never had this before!!!" she said, gleefully, as she leaned over her plate, shoveling food quickly into her mouth.

I walked into the kitchen, smiling and proud of my culinary triumph. She loved it! Something I made was a huge success with my darling daughter. I took a quick look at her sectioned, plastic plate to see what had been such a coup.

Corn and Peas, mixed and boiled. With some butter.

"Hello, Food Network? Yeah, cancel that Toddler Tidbits idea. She's definitely not ready for prime time quite yet."

Thoughtful

In first grade, our teacher at Kindred Public School, Miss Sorlie, gave awards to every child in class. A yellow construction paper ribbon, pinned to the bulletin board at the back of the class, highlighted a positive aspect of each of us.

I didn't really understand mine.

"Most Thoughtful." That was nice, I guess, but I was 6. I didn't really get it.

Sunday night, as I tucked my wiggly worm in, I promised her I would stay upstairs and read in our room. "I have a headache, Honey. I'm going to take some Tylenol and finish my book. I've got a new one to start, too. You just go to sleep," I said, knowing she was keyed up and wouldn't stay in her bed without some serious intervention.

After one more, "I just need another hug from you," she went to sleep.

Monday morning, I woke at 9 AM* to my little girl standing at the side of my bed.

"Mommy?" she said, stroking my hair. "Your head still hurt?" She leaned over and kissed my forehead.

Yeah, now I get it. She deserves a thousand construction paper ribbons.


*(Yes, 9 AM!!!! NINE!!!! And she did it again on Tuesday! I'm liking this.)

Lorfa heefer

I was in the bathroom when the door opened abruptly. She came in, shut it, and climbed on top of her potty chair, mumbling.

"What was that, honey?"

"Loofah hoopah."

"What?"

"Loafah hayfa."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand. Can you look at me and say it really clearly?"

"Loffie Hoofar!" she shouted.

This went on for a while. Eventually, she settled on a pronunciation.

"Lorfa Heefer! Yeah. Lorfa Heefer."

"OK, Lorfa Heefer*. What does it mean?"

She stopped spinning in a circle, hand on the wall, and looked at me, rather exasperated, and shook her head.

"Mommy, It's complicated."

Next week, she'll begin my Astrophysics lessons.





*We eventually worked out that "Lorfa Heefer" means La Tour Eiffel, the Eiffel Tower.

Unprocrastination

People love my Christmas cards. I think the reason is I always overthink them, and by the time I actually get them out, it's usually Valentine's Day. By then, the winter boredom has set in and they have nothing better to do than read a long photocopied letter of me blathering and bragging about my brilliant child and all the hilarious things she did this year. (Hey, you're reading my blog. You don't even need the long, boring letter!)

But this year is going to be different. It's November, and I'VE ALREADY ORDERED THE PICTURE PART.

And the best thing? I got them for free. 100 of them. You can, too. Go here, read it, and do it. One of the codes expires on Saturday the 21st (tomorrow) but the other one doesn't, so you could at least get 50 free. No shipping, even.

I really liked their interface. The backgrounds were fine, I found one I liked, but the best part was that I could add as many photos as I wanted, wherever I wanted, in my choice of sizes, and could add captions and clip art and the whole works, so you can take something plain and really tweak it to your own liking. On the card I made, each photo is labeled with the month, some with the place, some with who the heck she was supposed to be (Halloween). The software was easy to use, and after giving it the OK, I was able to browse all my own photos on my computer very easily, which frankly kind of shocked me (no waiting for long individual uploads.)

So now, all I have to do is return the paper ones I bought, write a letter, copy it on the cute candy cane paper I got, stuff them, address them, put the return address on them, stamp them and mail them.

Yeah, OK, so I'm still thinking February.

Labor Day

Like Mrs. Chicken said recently, I've been feeling rather blogstipated. Not much going on, and what is bugging me I can't necessarily blog about because I don't know if those people read me, and I think you're probably getting rather tired of the "what I did with the random crazy veggies in my CSA basket this week!" posts. (I know I am.)

This weekend was Labor Day, and we had no plans. As a kid, I always dreaded Labor Day. We'd be at the lake, it would rain, we'd have to turn on the space heaters and light a fire, wearing jeans and tennies with our big, thick, hooded sweatshirts. It was so dark, we'd have to turn on lamps to read, Jerry Lewis would be on the little black-and-white TV, and the next day was always the beginning of school. I would wake up with an ooky feeling in the pit of my stomach, and honestly, I can feel it right now just remembering. It was the end. The end of the summer, the end of the good weather at the lake, the end of the freedom to pack up and just go whenever we wanted. We were back to responsibility and tests and deadlines, school and rehearsals. Mom always looked so sad on Labor Day.

Being an at-home mom, I figured it would be different. No schedules, no set in stone plans, no school tomorrow. Of course, it would be sunny and we'd go to the pool and grill burgers.

Our grill broke. It was cold. It rained. I had to put on socks and turn on the lamp.

But, I did have Dr. B home for the day. So I made a plan. And we had fun.

We took Rowan to her first in-theater movie. "Up!" was playing at our cheap theater, so even if she got "skeered", we'd only be out 3 bucks. But she did fine. She spent much of the movie hugging me facing the back, but by the end she was loving it, and only cried when I told her she couldn't lick the seat backs as the final credits rolled.

We came out of the theater, and she smiled up at us and said, "I loved my first movie!" We decided to make a night of it, and had dinner out at Damon's, followed by tag-team book browsing at Barnes and Noble while Rowan played trains at the Thomas the Tank Engine train table. We bought nothing, but got ideas for library requests, and enjoyed the smells of new paper and coffee, bright colors and fresh pages.

We made our stab at defeating the Labor Day Blues. Can't do anything about the weather, but a movie, buffalo chicken pizza, and some retail therapy did help lift our spirits a bit. Sometimes, that's all it takes.

Dance Party: Yippee!!!

Our Hips Don't Lie from Ronica on Vimeo.

Please ignore the tall, bloated dork who appears occasionally in the frame, and focus on the cute kid with the smokin' moves. My favorite part is after I spin her around, when she nearly falls over but keeps on groovin'.

My daughter is so awesome.

PS: Lucy? Not much of a dancer.

Distraction

Rowan is a surprisingly strong little girl. She always has been. I felt my first kick at 14 weeks of pregnancy, and it was nothing like those flutters they tell you about--it hurt! Physically, she's got a lot more stamina than most of her friends, so I'm able to push her in ways you might not expect of a 2-year old.

The other night, her dad was not coming home for dinner, so we were on our own. She took an extra long nap and woke after 5 PM, and I wanted to help tire her out so I could get her to bed at the right time. We went to take Lucy on our usual walk, but this time I offered to let her walk the whole way instead of riding in the stroller for 3/4 of the walk.

Our walk is 1.4 miles. She's done a mile before without a problem, so I decided to give it a try.

I leashed Lucy, and then grabbed Rowan's Elmo walking harness handle thing.

Yeah, I leashed her. I LEASH MY CHILD. Cruel, whatever. We live on a 35 mph road, and at 5 PM I am not taking any chances.

So we took off walking, and she was doing great. Down the hill we went, the two of them criss-crossing in front and behind me. Lucy would stop to smell a tree or clump of grass, and Rowan would do the same. We walked past the park, up the hill, and around the corner. We met neighborhood dogs and talked to people we see on our daily walks. Rowan was doing fine--she was going strong! This was wonderful. No problem! I envisioned days without wrangling with the second-hand Peg stroller, without the "Rowan walk? Rowan walk?" arguments, free as a breeze as we walked together as a family.

As we were heading back up the hill, Rowan started to get a little fussy. I gave her a lift on my back for a few blocks, and she giggled and held on tight as Mom took on the steepest part of the hike. As we reached the corner where I normally allow her out of the stroller, she begged to walk again. Lucy took this chance to finally do her business, and I dutifully bagged and sealed it as we headed home. It was supper time, we were hungry, hot and sweaty and both in need of a cool drink.

Just then, Rowan tripped.

And then it started. The lip squared, the jaw jutted forward, the waterworks commenced. And then she wailed as her knee developed a dime-sized pink scrape.

My only thought? DISTRACT HER. Distract the kid. Give her something so she stops. STOPS. Anything! QUICK!!!

"Here, Honey! Can you carry this for Mommy?"

And I found myself handing her the only thing I had.

The bag of poop.

Yes, I leash my precious child and make her carry sacks of dog shit.

Someone call Child Protective Services.

Quick.

Rowrie?

*Note: more info and photos re: our France trip soon, but I had to post this before I forget it.


Rowan's language is developing rapidly. She knows when to say please, thank you, Bon Appétit, Cheers, and many other niceties (though "excuse me" is always followed and preceded by lots and lots of giggling and usually some attempt at reproducing whichever sound she just needed to ask to be excused for.) She asks questions, some two or three words, and tells us all about things she's done or things she's seen. Every night, there's a play-by-play of the day, and during prayers she thanks God for things that are important to her, like Lucy's haircut which currently appears to be the most wonderful thing she must give thanks for.

The one thing she can't say is, "I don't know." For that, she developed her own word, "Rowrie." (Rhymes with "Cow Pee.") No clue where that one came from.

We look through a book, identifying objects on the page, in English or in French. When one comes that she doesn't know or has forgotten: "Rowrie?"

I ask her the color of objects in a room. She gets to the undefinable puce, beige or olive, and... "Rowrie?"

Planning for her second birthday dinner tomorrow, I ask her what she'd like to have. "Rowrie?" (Eventually it came out that she wanted sandwiches. Fish ones, but we had fish tonight, so we settled on chicken.)

Before bed, we started cleaning up her play area, our living room. She had taken every single book out of the basket, so as we put them back in, I encouraged her to count. She made it up through ten with no problem. Then came eleven and twelve, which needed a little help to come out correctly. She took the book from my hand, plopped it in the basket, and said just after I did, "Thirteen!"

I handed her one more book. She put it in the basket. I said, "which one is that, Honey?"

She looked at me and smiled.

"Rowrie-teen???"

*Waving from Paris*

Bonjour à tous! I know it's been a while, and honestly I won't write much today, but I did want to say hello and let you know we're having a wonderful time. Rowan is over her jet-lag, saying her "Bonjour" and "Au Revoir" and "Merci", eating lots of fabulous bread and loving chasing pigeons in the parks. I am eating massive quantities of my favorite cheeses, enjoying un verre or two, and catching up with friends I normally only get to see through this little screen. Though I wish I had tons more time--there are so many wonderful people here that I would love to see. I guess we'll just have to come back!

We've had the chance to take a few side trips; one to Chartres, Chateaudun and Brou to visit a non-blogging friend, and one to Champagne to visit Vivi. I've had many lovely lunches and teas with mes amies, and spent lots of time with Aimee, Max and Julien. Yesterday we took the opportunity to picnic in the Jardin des Plantes, have tea at the Paris Mosque, and then tour the church St. Germain de l'Auxerrois, the home parish of the kings and queens of France while they were living in the Louvre (also where Eva Longoria married Tony Parker in the religious ceremony.) It was incredible. Pictures to come!

I don't even want to think about leaving yet, but it's coming so fast. I feel back at home, like we never left, my french returning quickly and easily and my "France face" back on. This time is a little different though--people are friendlier when you've got a cute little kid in tow.

So now we are trying to fit in the last few things we'll have time to do before we leave on Monday. Soon we head back, much much much poorer in money but richer in so much more.

Arrival

We were up, dressed, and nearly packed. Rowan was finishing her oatmeal, and I was toasting some bread and sucking down coffee. Then we got the call.

"We missed our plane!" Sob, sob, hysterical crying followed by anger at her husband's mistake. But they were coming, just later. She would understand if we didn't even want to make the 4 1/2 hour drive to New York.

"Rock, we're still coming. I planned, I packed, we're ready. Even if we just have dinner together, it will be worth it."

I crossed my fingers that my pep talk with Rowan the night before had stuck. "Roxy! Josh! New York! One two fee foh five six seben eight nine ten!" She was excited.

We took our time, checked the net, and got going around 9:45. Leisurely is much less stressful, and being trapped for many hours in a big city with a toddler who wasn't reacting well would be my idea of a nightmare, so I planned for a little time but not too much. We got approved to check into their room early at the hotel, and I set the GPS.

On the road, Rowan was *great*. She snoozed for about 30 minutes, but mostly just stared out the window, calmly watching Pennsylvania slide by. We stopped at a little local place in Hazleton, PA, for lunch, eschewing the "freedom fries" that were still on the menu, and surprising the waitress by ordering coffee, no cream (I guess she was expecting me to either ask for soda or a cappucino), and by Rowan's excellent behavior. I had a roast beef, fried onion and cheddar on toast, and Rowan wolfed her hot dog, applesauce, and most of my mixed veggies. We cranked the tunes and drove on.

As we headed into the city, the headache settled in, thanks to the smog. We got to the hotel, asked for advice from the front desk, and went to settle in. I had forgotten to fill my Excedrin, but other than that, all was well. We planned to take public transport into Manhattan, because quite frankly $45 is a lot to spend on a car ride, and after a year of Paris buses and metros, I wasn't worried. We were heading to Central Park first.

"Are you excited, honey?"

"Yes!!!" she said, and danced in a circle.

"Having fun?"

"Yeah!!! Yay!!!" she shouted, as she jumped up and down.

"Where are we?"

Her face split into a huge grin, and she squealed.

"A BATHROOM!!!"

I'm taking it as a sign.

It's a busy weekend here in Academicsburg. Dr. B's department has 2 banquets (Friday and Sunday), and his Solar Decathlon project another (Saturday), plus a ribbon cutting. Rowan went to one banquet and stayed with a friend for another, and will again join that friend tonight as we finish what is every-so-affectionately known as "Hell Weekend".

Saturday was a busy day. She was tired from the night before, but the Solar house was here and the ribbon-cutting ceremony was at noon. As I've done before, I asked her if she could play alone in her room for ten minutes while I showered, and then I'd give her a bath. She looked up at me with big, solemn eyes and repeated, "Good girl. Promise!"

She tried. I give her that.

I stepped into the room, clean and fresh-smelling, my hair dripping water down my back, and found her. Naked, sitting in the middle of the guest bed. Hands, chest, and bum--brown.

"Poopy!" she said, upset. Distressed. "Poopy! Uh-oh. No no no!!!" Nasty, funny-colored, and foul-smelling. I don't know what she ate at our friend's house, but she sure didn't like the feeling of its return.

I'm hoping this means she's getting closer to potty training days. She's a helpful little tyke, but diaper changing is really something I'd rather she didn't help with. Ew.

The Easter Bunny Eats Kibble

Easter...barely.

I was so excited. The perfect dress. Adorable shoes. Little, ruffly socks and a pink hair bow. I planned to curl her stick-straight hair and take lots of pictures. The bunny's visit at home, the church egg hunt and games, service, then dinner at a friend's. A perfect day, to help me forget this day eleven years ago, the day my mother entered the hospital, never to leave again. I was ready, to wipe the slate clean and lay a new memory over it.

Then, Good Friday hit with a vengeance.

I went to Target and Wegman's, filling the cart with fresh fruit, chocolate treats and 4 kinds of sorbet for the terrine I was making to go with homemade cookies I'd bake on Saturday, a contribution to the grand Easter meal.

We got home, planning a dinner out, but Rowan was tired. I suggested ordering in, and Dr. B said, "that's just what I was thinking." She had leftovers, we ate Bell's Greek Pizza, and I put her to bed.

Then my tummy started rumbling.

I decided to go to bed early. Unfortunately, I didn't get much sleep. I spent the next 12 hours retching everything that had entered my body in the last day into an ice-cream bucket, and wishing I could keep a spoonful of water down long enough for some Advil to take effect.

Dr. B was fine. It wasn't the pizza. Turns out I picked up more than fruit and sorbet at the store.

Saturday I stayed in bed all day, canceling with our friend for Sunday dinner for fear of getting everyone sick, and forbidding Rowan to come close to me. It killed me to see her standing at the door, "Mommy? Seeping? Jammies?" Her dad laid her down for a nap, and when she woke up, she stood in her crib, taking off all her clothes and her diaper and shouting loudly, so she would be sure I could hear her, "Mommy! I yow you! I yow you, Mommy!"

By 8 PM, it had been several hours since I'd last thrown up, I'd kept down a little applesauce and some toast, and things were looking up. I went down to kick off the Easter Bunny's visit. And was met with a mountain of unwashed dishes, food-spotted counters, and no clean diapers.

I guess I am needed around here.

I finally got to bed around 10:30, and as Dr. B tucked me in (after "fixing" the messed up bed for me, and turning down the covers), I said, "if I can't sleep, I'm taking an Ambien because I'm exhausted and I need some rest." He just smiled.

The next thing I knew it was 8:45 AM. The egg hunt started at 9:30. I felt, surprisingly, OK.

I could do it. I could make it!

I rushed her downstairs, shoveled some oatmeal, applesauce and toast in, and slugged 1/2 a cup of coffee with no signs of nausea. We ran upstairs while Dr. B walked the dog, and showered her, then me. He dressed her in her perfect outfit, but there was no time for hair curling. I blasted my hair enough so it looked sort of dry, swept it into a ponytail, and grabbed my makeup bag for a quick maquillage in the car. We were a few minutes late (but only missed the instructions she wouldn't have understood anyway), but we made it. Her hair looked really dorky*, but we made it.

A young girl quickly took Rowan under her wing, helping her decorate her Easter bag with stickers and crayon scribbles, and making her Easter Egg magnet with puffy crosses and fish on it. Margaret led Rowan around the grounds, helping her to find the eggs that were scattered about, beneath trees and tucked into the mulch. They played games and had treats. She loved it.

We went in for church, and she stayed just as long as her favorite church buddy Elena did, then she was ready for the playroom with her where Daddy was helping out.

I breathed in the strong, sweet scent of the hyacinths on the altar, thankful that the smell didn't make me want to chuck my breakfast. I greeted the people I see every week, and a few new faces. I got a hug from the pastor. I listened, while they shared the wonderful news I'd heard so many times. I shared a hymnal with a friend.

I sang, and felt it all go.

We have a new start. One I can't control, can't make perfect. But I can enjoy it.

Alleluia.





*I tried to trim her bangs after church. Then Dr. B tried to fix it. I keep telling myself it will grow out.

Milking It

Yep. She's figured it out. Not even 2, and she's already a little manipulator.

She's recovering from her cold. Still an occasional cough, a bit of a runny nose. The fever is gone, she's got plenty (WAY TOO MUCH) energy, and she's no longer dropping gross yellow solid snot bombs on my shoulders. She's eating better, and no longer needs to spend the entire day in my lap.

But this morning, she would NOT sit in her own chair to eat her breakfast. She wanted to sit in my lap, again, and have me feed her every bite. It's her favorite way to eat, and occasionally we indulge her, but try not to let it become a habit.

Well, I guess I indulged her once too often during the whole pee and snot fiasco. Woops.

But I won. YAY. (It doesn't happen often, so I'm celebrating.)

"Rowan, NO. No. You either eat in your chair, or you GO BACK TO BED."

(Repeat.)
(Repeat.)
(Repeat.)
(Repeat.)
(Repeat.)
(Repeat.)


"Fine. Back to bed."

I picked her up, and she clung to me, convinced she'd won. (Heh. Fooled her.)

I took her upstairs, set her in her crib and walked out.

1/2 a cup of coffee, 2 pieces of bread sent on the journey to Toastville, and one moment of please, please, please let this work later, I went back up.

"Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!"

"Do you promise to eat your oatmeal like a good girl, in your own chair?"

"Promise! Eat! Oatmeal!"

I took it. And she was as good as her word.

Phew.

Peeing like a Racehorse

Now how's that for a title?

Mmmm hmmmm.

But that's the gist of it. Rowan has been whizzing like you wouldn't believe in the last 5 or 6 days. Wetting through diapers in no time. Leaking, changing clothes, and leaking again. Demanding water, Water, WATER, MORE WATER!!!! Today after lunch and her bath, I put her down for a nap, and in 90 minutes she wet through her diaper again, adding more than 6 ounces of liquid to it.

Yes, I weighed it. I know. It's kind of gross to weigh a diaper on a food scale, but you gotta do what you gotta do.

She's also been asking for lots and lots of crackers and snacks, and picking at her meals, which for most kids is normal but not for her. She's usually a pretty good eater.

Since it's a change, I got a little concerned. I called the nurse at 3. We saw a doc at 4:30. She thought I had a right to be concerned. It might be nothing! Or it might be diabetes. If it's diabetes, she has to be admitted to the hospital.

Tomorrow, we're doing a fasting blood test, before breakfast. Yeah. That ought to be fun.

Luckily, one of my good friends from middle school/high school is a pediatrician who specializes in pediatric diabetes. Though she's currently fighting the flood in Fargo, she has been able to talk on the phone and give me some ideas. Which tests to ask for, what to worry about, what not to, what it could be, what it might not be, etc. She said, "I wish she was here so I could just look at her now and set your mind at ease." (Me, too, Brenda. Me too.) But it sure did help to talk with her, though I'm still very worried.

If you're the praying kind, or the good thoughts/vibes/karma kind, please add us to your list. We need all the support we can get. Thanks in advance, and I'll keep you posted.

Learning French

We are getting ready for our first trip as a family of 3 back to France, since we left our temporary home. I am excited, nervous, and so looking forward to seeing friends, eating things I can't find here, and sharing my beloved Paris with my daughter. There are things I never did while I was there (can you believe I went to the Louvre at least 5 times and never saw the Venus de Milo? Not that I'm going to this time. But I really can't believe I missed it.) I want to go to Fontainebleau, perhaps the Picasso museum and the Rodin museum, eat a baguette rillettes et cornichons (drool...), pick up some lovely things at the market like the special butter, madeleines, and some really stinky cheeses, and walk up la rue Mouffetard for some gelato and people-watching.

Rowan has been exposed to some french her whole life, but we haven't raised her bilingual. Neither of us is a native speaker, so I guess we just don't want to do it wrong, though we'd probably be OK. I have been playing french music for her, speaking to her some, and she has been read french stories since she was very small.

Now, as we're getting ready, I'm trying to introduce a little more into our daily routine. The other day, I decided to teach her to faire la bise. I told her we would need it when we went to see Aimee.

"Aimee? Aimee? AIMEEEEEE???" she squealed. (She loves Aimee.)

We practiced la bise, bisous, and she loved planting kisses on my cheeks. A friend came over for a play date, and she gave her mother bisous before they left.

Then last night, I was looking at Aimee's flickr page, and there was a new photo of her, taken by her son Max, who turned 2 yesterday.

Rowan saw it, smiled and said, "Aimee!!!!" and leaned in. My laptop screen has now been bised.

And the torture returns...

Not Rowan. She's great. Her cold is gone, the teeth didn't pop (but I'm pretty sure they were moving) and she's back to her old self. She's happy, playing, coloring, dancing, learning new words, loving flash cards and stickers, and just generally a delight to be around. We've worked past her bedtime issues (they showed up with the sickness, but a few nights of stubbornness on our part seemed to do the trick) and now she's obsessed with wearing dresses, stealing my high heels ("Cute shoes! Cute shoes!") and playing ball, especially outside. It's warming up, and we've even seen the occasional crocus and other early flower peeking through the grass. Yesterday I even heard a woodpecker.

But the torture is my own. Apparently, the PCOS that has plagued me is back. I won't go into the gory details, but it wreaks havoc with my moods, energy levels, waistline and my head. And the migraine I've been dealing with for 6 days decided that the best day for it to really hit was the day I had Rowan and her buddy here the whole day. Not the best timing. Luckily, though he pulled another all-nighter, her dad was able to stay until 8:30 so I could give myself an injection and let it take effect (ie: nausea, head swelling, brain lining on fire, etc.) and even shower before I was alone with the munchkins. It did work, and chased with a Vicodin, it was tolerable.

I've been feeling blog guilt, so wanted to stop by and let you know I'm still here. I'm crabby, depressed (thank you, PCOS!!!), headachey, a little bit stuffed up (probably part of it, too), bloated, zitty, and I need a haircut, but I'm here. In my sock monkey pajamas, of course.

Breakfast Guest

It's Spring Break. Glorious, glorious break. We're not traveling. It's a staycation. And by that, I mean Dr. B isn't horribly stressed (just having guilt pangs because he actually can *breathe*, imagine that), he's home, and we get a lot more time together. Though he is working some, he's a lot more flexible. We're not doing anything super special or new--just playing, coloring, watching shows, going for walks and to the park--but it's enough. It's wonderful. I'll take it.

So I'm sorry I haven't been around. Because I've been busy enjoying the husband who'd been absent for a while, posting went down to the lower half of my list. (Plus, I have actually had to plan meals, rather than just throwing together scrambled eggs with random veggies and fruit at the last second like I usually do when it's just me and the monkey.) But then something happened the other day that I thought you might enjoy, so I finally got off my duff and uploaded the pictures from my camera to my laptop (watch flickr for more soon. It's too late for me to deal with all 60-odd pictures tonight).

A few months ago, I read this book. I really, really enjoyed it.

Then a few days ago, Rowan acted it out. She climbed up on the couch, fetched him down, and installed him in a seat next to her. She sat, coloring, and enjoying her morning with him.

I brought out cups. They had coffee. She even gave him a new nickname.



My daughter has a new friend, and his name is Buddha, though Rowan gets to call him "Bubba". Yeah, they're tight.

Baby Klingon

Rowan has never been a snuggly kid. Even as a little baby, she wasn't a cuddler. She would fight and kick if you held her too close, and though she wanted to be with you. At church, when she is taken to the nursery/play room, she runs in with barely a backward glance. She'll give you a hug or kiss goodbye, if you ask, but then shouts, "BYE!", waves, and heads toward the shelves filled with toys. While the other moms have to sit and play with their kids for 10 minutes until they are ready to be left alone, despite the fact that they go every week, I head back to the sanctuary, barely missing a minute.

A few months ago, we had an adult double date with some friends. A matinee and dinner, while the kids were being watched by our friends' daycare provider and her daughter. When we got back, Debbie commented on how much fun she'd had with Rowan, and that she'd love to watch her again.

"Most kids who stay at home with mom aren't very well-adjusted. Rowan is amazing! She had no problems with you leaving, made herself at home, and was a perfect angel. We had so much fun! She even brought a diaper and wipes over and asked when she needed her diaper changed." Rowan hadn't even noticed when I walked into the room, and didn't seem to care. She was too busy playing.

All this changes when she's not feeling well. Whether it's teething or a cold or a combination of the two (like now), she only wants to be with me. On top of me. All. The. Time. She refuses to eat, refuses to sleep, and panics when I close the door to use the bathroom. My shoulders are streaked with snot, and I have a 25 1/2 pound barnacle cemented to my torso.

Yesterday, she was in full sick-mode. Up in the night, with a refusal to sleep again unless Mom or Dad slept with her (I took the night before, Dr. B took that night). She was coughing, sneezing, and her upper lip had become Rio del Snotto. We raised the legs of the crib (Harry Potter 4 & 7), turned on the vaporizer, and gave her a little Motrin before bed.

I'm afraid our remedies worked too well. Yesterday, she was awake for 14 hours straight. No naps except for a 10 minute snooze in the stroller on our walk. Though she would stop and sit on the couch for a while, drinking juice, that was the extent of her rest.

And mine.

Bedtime came, and I got her ready. She called out a cheerful "Bye!" as I left, blowing kisses.

Then it started. Screaming. Crying. Wailing.

For the next hour, I let her go. Then gave in and went to talk with her. Then let her cry. Then her dad came home and tried, too. And then he left her room and it started again.

Finally, after an hour and a half, I did what I had to. I went up, and she begged me to pick her up. I hugged her as she stood, arms raised in her crib, and let her cry on my shoulders. But I didn't pick her up. I tried to reason with her.

It didn't work.

Finally, I asked her to sit. She refused. I sat next to the crib. She sat, so she could see my face, and reached through the bars of the crib for another hug. Then she put her hands on either side of my face, and pulled me close for a jailbird kiss.

We sat, and I talked to her in a low, soothing voice. About letting her body heal. About resting so she can play and have fun tomorrow. About how much I loved her.

Her eyes started to droop.

I asked her to lie down. She shook her head, violently, "No no no no nooooo!!!" I offered my arm for her to lie on.

She face planted on my hand, butt in the air. I slowly wiggled my arm out. She grasped my hand.

I waited. Soon, she was twitching, exhausted and deeply asleep. I extracted my fingers from her sweaty grip and crawled slowly toward the door.

Though she may not show it every day, our independent little girl needs us. It may be hidden, but it's still strong.