Surrounded

Getting pregnant with Rowan was a miracle. Glorious, fabulous. Amazing. So wanted. Of course, it happened right when we didn't expect it, when we'd given up, when we were too busy to think about it. We were so lucky that everything went as well as it did (well, I consider a torn ACL, surgery, 4 months of puking, awful pain, physical therapy, and 29 hours of labor to be not so bad).

I'm hoping we can get lucky again.

It took me a while to get to this point. No, we're not pregnant, and haven't started trying again, but I finally got to the point where I think I am ready.

Then some bad things happened.

I'm not talking about the kids of other bloggers who died randomly and unjustly and so tragically. That was and is awful, yes. I wasn't a reader, so I wasn't invested myself, but the echoes were heard around the blogosphere.

No, but that same week, just after I had the realization that I was "ready", my friends lost their baby, just days after his official due date. He died in utero, and she had to go through labor and bury her child. This child that she didn't think she wanted to try for, until after she held my new baby for the first time. The child he had always dreamed of, a perfect son.

Then, another friend, someone from my high school class, wrote to me. He and his wife found their baby had severe heart defects and Downs Syndrome during a sonogram. They chose to end the pregnancy.

Dear God.

I've been trying to wrap my head and heart around this for weeks. I've thought, I've prayed, I've thought some more. I've talked with Dr. B. I've rejoiced in the healthy births of friends' and family's children. And then I looked at my little girl.

And I so want for her to have a brother or sister. She deserves as much love as we can give her in this life.

I am fearful. I am scared. Worried, anxious, you name it, I am feeling it. My age, the history of PCOS, my doctor's questions. The first pregnancy, gone in miscarriage. The months of grieving for our baby. The months of trying, the disappointment.

The ultimate question: what if that was it?

There are many things going on in our lives in the near future. Big trips coming up, plans, exciting things. These things I could use as excuses to put it off. But then I remember my birthday coming up, and I know I can't.

Soon, I think we'll start down the path to trying again.

Please, God. Please.

Danny Evans Is My Hero

For parents, DadGoneMad.com is required reading. (Well, at least for those who don't mind or better yet totally love inappropriate, swear-word filled rantings that make you laugh until stuff comes out your nose while your heart is being torn into little tiny pieces.) Danny is an amazing writer, and he recently got a book deal. His book, Rage Against the Meshugenah: Why it takes Balls to go nuts, comes out August 4. (It is available for pre-order on Amazon, and will also be carried by Target, Borders and Indie Bound.)

I'm a Danny fan. Big-time. I read every post, comment on a few, and have even forced him into a game or two of online pseudo-Scrabble. His honesty, forthrightness, and courage inspire me. His anger and fear and discussions of gross bodily functions make me feel normal. And he likes hockey. Bonus.

So I asked, he approved, and I started a Facebook fan page for him and his new book. If you're a Facebooker, please join and invite your friends.

Help Danny become more respected and famous than Chuck Klosterman. (Please.)

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

Baguette Envy

Once upon a time, I lived in Paris, with my husband and our dog, who lived for the baguette.

One day while waiting for my girls outside their school on the Boulevard Arago, my dog licked a baguette that was poking out of a woman's tote bag. I was embarrassed. She was cool about it. She broke the end off and handed it to Lucy.

When Lucy would see bits of baguette on the street, she'd eat them. She'd veer unexpectedly into boulangeries, and puddles of drool would form by her feet when a warm, crackly baguette was too close to the edge of the dinner table.

We moved back to Madison, looked in vain for really good baguettes, and had a baby. Then we moved here.

Somehow, bread-snob genes are now crossing species.

Today, at the grocery store, my daughter licked a baguette that was poking out of a basket.

(Yes, I bought it. Only about a month until we return! I can't WAIT!!!)

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.

Mom will have hairy legs for a while.

Awesome., originally uploaded by MrsBinParis.

She woke yesterday sneezing, coughing, and trying to resist the urge to be cranky. All day we went back and forth between giggles and grins and random short-lived screaming fits. Most of the day was spent in my lap, leaving snot trails over each shoulder. Today, I lifted her from the crib and noticed the heat coming off her. She cried as I changed her diaper, in pain just to be awake. Advil brought the temp down, and gave her a little comfort while she ate breakfast, colored some pictures and caught up with Chicka on the Sunny Side Up Show.

We headed upstairs for her bath and a nap, but I could tell she needed a little something extra. So I gave it to her.

It was worth a whole can of shaving cream, just for that smile.

Cathetering a Toddler Sucks

After 3 appointments, a blood draw and a urine sample (with no diaper-wringing...this is our second check for a UTI via catheter, and it wasn't any more fun this time), we still don't know anything.

The blood and urine tests came back clear for both excess sugars and bacteria (UTI or bladder infection). They'll culture to make sure, but they don't think either of these are positive.

So right now we have no idea. Hopefully she'll be fine this weekend and it's just a fluke. Maybe it's really "Eat lots of crackers and drink lots of water week." I don't always know these things. ;) But I did keep my appointment for Monday morning in case it's still wacky. I can always cancel it, but getting one isn't always easy.

On the bright side, today the peeing is less, so maybe it is just a weird coincidence. She's in a great mood, and was really good at the doctor's office, despite the yucky catheter and blood draw. She's a brave girl.

I'll keep you posted, but so far there's nothing to report. And that's great!

Thanks for the prayers.

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.

Appropriate Dress

Monday was chilly in Happy Valley. The temperature read 26, but the wind was strong, so our daily mile and a half walk with Lucy was a cold one. (We shortened it. A mile was plenty.) Despite being fairly well-dressed and covered with a blanket, Rowan got cold and yelled as the wind chapped her cheeks.

On Tuesday, the temp was the same so I decided to really pull out all the stops. Though I didn't expect the wind to be as strong, I wasn't taking any chances. I needed that walk. (Damn you, cookies!) I dressed her in snow pants, boots, and grabbed her jacket, mittens and hat. I tossed the jacket on the floor so she could do her "1,2, Fliperoo!", and went into the living room to find my own shoes, which tend to migrate on a set of little feet. When I got back, she had her jacket on, but the hat was no where to be seen.

"Where is it?" I said, looking around the kitchen. I looked under the table. On top of the table. On the kitchen counter. On top of the freezer. In the living room. On the bookshelf. Nope.

"Sheesh!" I told Rowan. "I must be losing it. I just had your hat here. You have to have a hat on! It's too cold to go with just your hood. You need a hat."

"Hat? Hat?" she answered. Then the light went on in her eyes, and she stomped into the living room in her pink furry snowboots.

She came back wearing this.




Unfortunately, it didn't fit under her hood.

The Olive Garden

is not my favorite restaurant. Not even close. I don't even like it that much. But every once in a while, I get a hankering for soup, salad and breadsticks. I love those big olives.

And my husband? Oh, he's 1/8 Sicilian, which means he's an EXPERT on all things ITALIAN and will NOT DARKEN THEIR DOOR UPON PAIN OF DEATH.

So when we're going out for a quick lunch or supper, I can never, ever get him to agree to go there. Even though his 1/2 Sicilian grandmother loves their tiramisu. IT DOESN'T MATTER. He won't.

Sigh.

We had no leftovers yesterday. I had to eat a Weight Watchers frozen dinner for lunch. It was NOT good. Really. It had some weird bitter green things in it. I don't know what they were. I don't want to know. I ate 1 1/2 pieces of bread with some butter and a stick of CoJack cheese because I'm sorry 6 points is baloney. I need more food.

So!

I was hungry. And I wanted Olive Garden's soup. So I made it.

I used her recipe. It was mind-blowingly good. Really. REALLY REALLY.

And I had all the stuff in the house. And it cooks in the crock pot. I love my crock pot.

Rowan? She said, "Zoop! Zoop! Deee-wisha!"

Lucy drooled on the floor.

And when Dr. B got home, he ate 3 bowls.

Then I told him what kind of soup it was.

He ran into the other room yelling, "No! NO! NOOOO!!! It's Ronica soup! Ronica soup! RonicaRonicaRonica!!! Not freakin' Olive Garden! NOOOOOO!!! It's RONICA GARDEN!"

(Yes, he really said Ronica Garden.)

Though I admit it, it was better than Olive Garden. More chunks, less broth, more hearty. That whole unlimited thing sucks when it's 40% broth they give you--this one isn't like that. And it makes a LOT. It's actually less like Pasta E Fagioli and more like what would happen if Chili and Vegetable Beef soup had a baby. It would be this.

We had leftovers for lunch today. Rowan's face got all orange. I ate a huge bowl. YUM.

Space

We're planning trips. Big ones, with little luggage. One to France in May, with me and Rowan taking a train from Frankfurt to Paris while jetlagged, alone (yeah, that should be fun.) Then another to the Outer Banks of NC in the summer, to a big house with about 10 other families. A house you can't drive to unless you have 4WD because it's right on the beach (which our little Civic hybrid doesn't.) So, we're told to pack for 3 days, rather than the 10 we'll be there. (It has a laundry room.)

So I've been thinking. How could we save space? And I came up with a BRILLIANT idea. We'll all use Rowan's Johnson's Head-to-Toe Baby Wash as shampoo and body wash!!! Perfect. Makes such good sense. Man, I'm surprised no one else ever thought of that.

I tried it today. It took more to wash me than her, but whatever. It's not known for lather. I cleaned up, washing hair, face and body, and towel drying. And it worked wonderfully!

If you like looking like a haystack.

No wonder my kid looks like Einstein.

I had been a tish irritated with my hairstylist for not cutting my hair enough at the last (very pricey) session, but today I was really, really glad to have the ponytail option.

Does anybody know of a head-to-toe that doesn't give us the "Botte de paille" look*?








*(If not, we'll make room for a bottle of conditioner.)

Tip: Maribou feathers + scissors = BAD IDEA.

We have been blessed. Rowan has 2 female cousins who are older than she is, and every few months, we receive bulging boxes from Montana filled with clothes. I rarely need to buy anything, though I sometimes snag a bargain that I know will be cute on her, and I always have more clothes than she can wear. So many things are adorable and fit her perfectly. But some of it isn't my style, so it doesn't get worn often. Then, I feel the inevitable guilt.

It's perfectly good. Practically brand new!

But it'll look weird. Or silly. Or too girly. Or sparkly. Or (insert random reason here).

But it's hardly even been used? Certainly she could wear it once?

So some things never get worn, spending their time at the bottom of the drawer until they are (phew) too small and relegated to the plastic bin in the closet.

The other day, I pulled out an adorable pair of Osh Kosh sage green cords. The shape, the style, the color--all great. But? They had some weird crocheted flowers attached to them that had shrunk into little pink and orange globs. Stuck to the legs. So, while Rowan was in the bath, I pulled out my seam ripper and voilà!!! Plain pants!

I felt so powerful.

Then I grabbed the coral polka dot baby blazer. With the dumb bows. Pluck! Pluck! Bows begone!!!

I dressed her for church in the sage pants with a pink turtleneck and white sweater. She looked great, sans crocheted pink and orange blobs. (I'm saving the blazer for another time.)

I was SuperMom.

Monday morning came, and I searched her closet for something comfy to wear. And I saw it.

The black velour jogging suit. With the embroidered pink butterflies. It was so cute, and it looked brand new. Likely never even washed. And she looks so good in black.

EXCEPT that the hood was lined. With feathers. Pink maribou feathers.

I couldn't do it. Her face would be surrounded by pink fluff that belonged on Blanch Devereau's bedroom slipper. I just couldn't put my strong, tough little girl in something like that.

So while she was in the bath, I grabbed a scissor, and started to work on the stitches.

Man, this is really hard to get at. All these stupid feathers. Those women in that Chinese sweatshop must have been really determined. Fluff and fluff and... SNEEZE. Oh, this sucks. Fine, I'll just cut it. Oh, NO! Fluff! And Fluff! And FLLLLUUUUFFFFFF!!! Oh, NO!!! What have I done???

It was everywhere. On my jeans, stuck to my sweater. In my hair. Infiltrating my contact lenses. Up my nose. In my mouth. On the floor, stuck to the shower curtain, floating in the air. And then? It crossed the barrier into her bath.

And she did not like it. Not one bit.

For the very first time in her life, Rowan asked to get out of the tub.

She clung to me, naked, screaming and terrified.

Of pink maribou feathers.

My tough little habanero-sauce eating girl, taken down by fluffy, rose-colored birdie bits.

25 Random Things About Me: (Yes, Stolen from Facebook)

1. I can't do that tongue roll thing. It has always bothered me, even though I know it's genetic. (And I'm thinking that if you can do it, you are doing it right now. People always do when I tell them.)

2. I lived in Paris for a year. I was very proud of the fact that some French people thought I was French after about 6 months. I am afraid that when I go back I'm going to sound like an idiot again. I think I'm going back for a visit in May! Yay!!!

3. My favorite food in the world is dill pickles.

4. I have had carpal tunnel release surgery on both my wrists. It worked, but my 10-hour/day playing schedule was never resumed.

5. In 7th grade, I was clocked at reading over 1,000 words/minute. I also got in trouble during read-aloud time in 2nd grade because I was 5 pages ahead of the class. I cried. (I really love to read.)

6. I started blogging when we lived in Paris. I have readers all over the world. Sometimes I freak out about that--family and friends kind of have to read me, but why are those people coming back? (So, why are you? Hmmm????)

7. I am allergic to cinnamon. And a whole bunch of other crap. Mostly organic aldehydes, according to Jeff, but also random stuff and things that I've encountered a lot, like Cherry Chapstick and gold. It's getting worse. I had a reaction to eyeliner a few weeks ago. I panicked. Me without eyeliner? That's a polar bear in a snowstorm. (Luckily, it has since died down.)

8. According to the neurologist, I have chronic low seratonin. This results in migraines and insomnia. I hate it. I have an arsenal of knock-out drugs, pain killers and triptans in my medicine cabinet because of it. Yoga helps, too.

9. I am not afraid of spiders. I really have no problem with them at all. (They are not allowed in my house, however. Jeff is all Buddhisty and takes them outside. I squish them.)

10. When I was in 3rd grade, I did that tongue on the pole thing in Kindred, North Dakota in the winter. I realized how stupid it was when I was stuck, and just ripped it off and dealt with the pain. I didn't tell my mom or my teacher. (I was scared of Mrs. Graf. I think I still am.)

11. I hate raw celery.

12. My daughter's middle name is Amelia. Jeff thinks it's after Amelia Aerhardt, but really I meant Amelia Bedelia when I brought it up.

13. This is my lucky number!

14. My mom died when I was 24. She was an amazing woman and an incredible mother. She was also an alcoholic. I miss her every day.

15. I have never once in my life smoked anything. Honest to Pete. (I've eaten a smoked chicken. It gave me the runs.)

16. I love Spaghetti-O's with meatballs. I realize they are gross. I have even eaten them at room temperature, straight out of the can. (It was summer and it was too hot to eat hot food.) My roommate at the time said, "They smell like vomit, but they taste really good." I thought that was a perfect summation.

17. My favorite meal is a rare steak topped with blue cheese, some sort of green veggie and a glass (or 2) of red wine. Follow with cheesecake or crème brulée and I might just melt.

18. I have a sick obsession with cleaning my ears with a Qtip. Drew Braunberger once described it as an "eargasm". I keep trying to stop, but I can't.

19. I am the Clearance Queen. I love to get a bargain, and will wait to buy something if I can estimate that "it will go down more", even if I ultimately lose it. It's kind of like a gambling addiction. I love Target, TJMaxx, Ross, Casual Corner (RIP), JCPenney's, and Kohl's. They have the best markdowns.

20. I want to be one of those people who looks like a rock star, but I just don't. I'm more Princess Grace than Grace Slick. I'm trying to deal with that. The whole Mad Men fashion thing is good for me because fussy 60's styles flatter me much more than deconstructed grungy things.

21. I brush my teeth too hard. My dentist yells at me for it.

22. I say both r's in February. I also use "whom" regularly, and get irritated when people use the wrong your/you're, their/there/they're, to/too/two, its/it's or put the apostrophe in plurals. I also dislike semicolons, but overuse double dashes. I'm working on this.

23. I used to think I was really fat. Then I had a baby. Now I think my body is AMAZING--look what it did!!! When I see photos that used to make me cringe, now I wonder what I was seeing. It's unbelievable what your mind can do to change your perception.

24. I have worked as a server and eventually a bartender at the Palace Sports Bar, the Ramada Inn, The Blue Moose Bar and Grill and Benvenuto's Italian Grill. I really enjoyed it, and I was good at it. I liked being with the people, moving around, making people happy, and making drinks. My Margaritas and Bloody Marys were highly praised. I don't like Bloody Marys.

25. My 4th fingers curve weirdly inward. I always have a hole between them and my middle fingers, no matter how hard I try to push them together. Kristen Kettler said it came from playing the clarinet too much, but I think my mom's hands were like that, too. Mine are just worse.

Rowan's Current Favorite Song

Wombo Lombo by Angélique Kidjo.

This kid has good taste. Angélique Kidjo performed on Jack's Big Music Show, our favorite kids' show (as much fun for me as for her). Will try to get video of her dancing to it, soon. Promise.