Come and knock on our door.

So, I returned home from morning carpool today, walked in the side door from the garage, through the kitchen. Into the hallway, towards the family room.



Pause.



Rewind.



Yup, front door wide open. Now, I probably arrived back home within 10 minutes of Mike leaving, but I'm not used to him leaving the door open. I do it all the time.



Just a mental note. I don't even bother to close it, because I like it open. And damn that Glendale robber for making me think I can't live in peace with my door wide open. I like being available. Inviting. Not hunched in a corner every time there is a knock on the door, or my mail arrives. That robber took the pure joy out of package arrivals from the UPS guy. Thank goodness they caught him. And his fake toy gun.



Anyway, Little J and I went about our biz-ness this morning, moving rather slowly because my eyes are still a 4 on an itch scale of 10, I denied myself caffeine as an experiment AND I took allergy meds. Not a good combo if you require any kind of speed or energy. FYI.



Around 10:30, I/we needed a scenery change and some ground beef--so to the grocery store we went. And at 11:07, when I returned home and retraced my steps back into the house, I noticed (yet again) that the front door was wide open. This time with my mail nicely placed on our floor.



And in the spirit of full disclosure, I will also tell you that I have been known to leave the door of the mini-van open while out running errands. I blame the automatic door clicker, because I SWEAR, I pushed it.



All this to say, Glendale robber 2.0 could easily walk in to my house and help himself. I make it really easy and no toy guns are necessary. And unless he takes the angry mob of laundry, or mess of books and toys currently littering my floors, I doubt I'll even notice his thievery. And if he DID manage to take those things, I might actually thank him.



Well, unless he takes my Tivo. I would seek revenge if he took the past few weeks of Greys Anatomy or the Hills away from me. Ooooh, or the final episode of ER. I've been saving that baby.

Na-na-na-na. Na-na-na-na. Hey-hey-hey. Goodbye.

It's time to tell you about May 15th.


I've been dragging my feet on this one...because first of all, I was awaiting a date. And secondly, it's so big for us, that I still can't wrap my mind around it.


In two weeks, L is having her G-tube removed. Officially. Surgically.

And just for ol' times sake, here's a shot of L after her first fundoplication and G-tube insertion. Followed by a pic of her and Big J prior to that surgery...because, how cute is it that they can fit in the same swing? Some of you will remember that he had a MATCHING surgery that morning! Fundoplications all around.

This was, sort of, the start of this whole mess. I mean, really, it all started when they were born at 25 weeks gestation (the turkeys). Prematurity ushered in a whole lot of issues, that led us to this point. Tying the stomach around the opening to the esophogas in an attempt to stop reflux.

And what the heck? Let's throw a pic of her second fundoplication in for fun!

As of today, she has been eating all of her calories by mouth for over 3 months. She's been drinking over 15 ounces of milk/water/juice everyday for about a month. We haven't touched her feeding pump since January (I think. I can't even tell you where it is at the moment). I've seen her throw up once in the past 3 months...and only because, I think, it was a burp gone bad.

So it really comes as no surprise that her tube is coming out. We've prayed for it ever since it's gone in. We've been reassured by countless therapists that, indeed, she will eat. Sweet little L, always willing to put a pacifier/bottle/chee-to/yogurt/apple in her mouth with a smile...anything to make you happy. But actually chewing and swallowing? Not so much.

Until last fall. That's when she officially turned a corner and started to put it all together. It started with small bites of a nutrigrain bar...and honestly, once she got the chewing/swallowing down, it all went rather fast, except that we needed to stretch her stomach. Substantially. Prior to last fall, she could only keep 2-3 ounces in her belly before she started to throw it back up.

Today for lunch she had a buttermilk biscuit sandwich (with turkey and cheese), a cup of yogurt and a couple of strawberries. 5 ounces of milk. Oh, and about 10 M&Ms. I'd say she's substantially stretched.

And her gastroenterologist and surgeon agree. So out it comes. Normally, they'd just pull the sucker out and let the gaping hole (that goes straight to the stomach, mind you) heal and ooze over a few days. Um, yuck. This also happens to leave a rather large scar/dent--just ask Big J.

L, however, has a slight problem with her stomach lining. It is protruding from the G-tube hole. Ouch. Well, I don't think it hurts so much, but it is pretty weird to look at. And it bleeds. For this, I am so glad the tube will be removed and all stomach lining will be put back, once and for all, in it's proper place.

There's also the issue of a hernia, which has popped itself out at the site of one of her old incisions, from a previous surgery. We've been waiting on the final death of the G-tube to fix it, so we're tacking that procedure on here as well. So, on the 15th, L officially heads to St. John's for some good sleepy drugs and a little nip-tucking.

I have seen this day coming and I am so glad it's here...but also a little fearful that our security is being removed with the tube. What if she doesn't eat after surgery? Or loses weight? Will I be following her around the house with some sort of high calorie food for the rest of her life? Will she hate me if I show up at her prom only to make sure she eats her dinner? Is it uncool for your mother to pack your lunch throughout college? And what will her husband think when I call to get her mealtime calorie stats? How do I turn off the mental calculator that tallies calories at every meal?

L has been my frustratingly, amazing obsession. For 4.5 years. I don't know how NOT to obsess over her eating. All with the goal of getting the tube out. Now that we're here, I'm thinking it's time to break out the #2 pencils, because the real test is about to get started. Doing all of this without the safety of the button. And while we haven't used the button at all, for a while...it was still there. Just in case.

What now?

Dunno.

Except that we will be having some sort of celebration which involves all of L's favorite foods. Think Toaster Scrambles, gummies, pudding.

Way to eat, L. You've done good.

Please allow Big J to show you how to eat linguine noodles.

Four-year-old style.

I don't think you're ready for this jelly.

Wow, this kid can really launch his head back and open up. I'm guessing he has an excellent visual on the incoming noodles.

By far, my favorite of the series. Getting by with a little help from Daddy-O.

Traditional method. No where near as much fun...you can tell by the look on his sad little face.

Perhaps it's time for a lesson in technique. The swirl. Again, with a little help from Pops.

Success!

In addition to our noodle experience, Mike and I had an enlightening conversation about gardening. It started when G decided she wanted to plant an apple seed and grow an apple tree.

"G, you wouldn't just put the seed in the ground, you'd bury the whole apple," says Mike.

This would be the point at which we argued the merits of planting a seed versus planting an entire apple. Mike's point was that the apple protection and moisture for the seed and the beginnings of a tree. My point is that I've never heard of anyone burying an apple. Gardeners, you can laugh all you want...but please share with us your insights.

"So that's how we'd grow an apple tree? By planting an ENTIRE apple?" I ask.

To which he replies:

"WE (caps added for emphasis, because at this point he was doing a frantic back and forth pointing thingy meant to emphasize us as a garden non-friendly couple) cannot do it. Other people can do it. WE are incapable of keeping anything alive."

Makes you TOTALLY envy our parenting skills, right?

At this point, Mike was able to use my failed herb garden, my original foray into lettuce and the 5 or 6 summers (in a row) that I have tried to keep impatients alive. And then there's the knockout roses, which don't fall in to the "dead" category, but I happened to plant them a wee bit too close to some azaleas, not knowing how LARGE they tend to grow...and well, let's just say that the knockouts are the bully of the flower bed. And they are starting to strangle the azaleas.

Here's my test: I am going to take a picture of those animal planters (from yesterday's post)every few weeks. Just to keep it real. We'll see when they start to take a turn for the worst.

Thanks for keeping me honest, blog world.

Celebrating spring with yard animals.

Let's get this party started with something "Spring-y", shall we?


Somewhere in between my 12-hour sleep coma, millions of nose blows, constant eye rubbing, pill-popping loopy-ness, and my additional 3-hour nap this afternoon...I managed to plant something. Not in the ground, so I don't officially call it gardening. More like my parental responsibility to teach my children about plant life and the earth, in the hopes that maybe it will stick and they will nurture a life-long passion and skill for gardening that I just do not have.

I saw this idea on the Crafty Crow (link here), and knew this is what I could handle. Because it involves a craft. We made a dog (not pictured), a frog...and a cat (that also happens to strongly resemble a pig. Some sort of weird half breed.). All made from materials we had around the house, which should come as no surprise, given my love for all things felt.

So, big week ahead. With some big news, that I'm just not quite ready to share.

Yet.

But I am all for you giving it your wildest guess.

A clue?

It does not involve the police, diapers or Llama, Llama Red Pajama (our favorite book).

Oh, and lots of projects that I am 99% sure will be completed and ready for photos this week. Fun, springy (in keeping with our theme), girly stuff. Which I happened to work on when I was confined to the relatively pollen-free bubble known as my house. Because if the earth keeps blooming, I will officially be on self-imposed house arrest. Either that or I will have to create a fork-like device to effectively scratch my eye balls.

Happy Monday!!!

Crossing the lines of common sense and basic safety.

"I'm not going to lie to you," he says. "It's not the best looking bottle."

Okay.

"But, it's sealed pretty tight, and there's nothing floating in it...so I think we're okay."

At this point, I imagine my eyes have been replaced by large, inflamed mosquito bites. That's how badly I itch. I'm desperate enough to put a liquid in my eyes, which may or may not have been purchased prior to my husband's graduation from high school.

And which, may or may not be, eye drops. The label is too worn to tell, but I can actually see the word "redness" on it, in a bottle shaped like I imagine eye drops would be...so I am taking a calculated risk. Although if I go blind AND the itching stops, I might still be tempted to call it a success.

Yes, Walgreens is just 2 minutes up the road. But it is Sunday night. And have I mentioned that MY EYES ITCH? And the allergy meds I am pumped up on have taken it all out of me. So strange, clear, non-debris-ridden, mystery liquid it is.

"Ouch, it burns a little," I say when the first drop hits.

"Careful. You never know if it's fermented a little," replies my husband.

Happy allergy season!

Scratch me.

I have discovered the second worst place to have an itch.


First place belongs to mosquito bites on the pinky toe joint. Specific, yes in-deedy, but true. I hate bug bites on my feet in general. But the pinky toe....oh, the pinky toe. That's a special breed of torture that wakes me up at night.


Friends, the second worst place to itch, is in fact the inside of your facial skin. Considering it's a physical impossibility to scratch, try as I might. I was going to say the inside of my eyelids, which I have been having a particularly tough time with this allergy season, but really it's the whole face. And the kicker is, that if I scratch it, it drips. Eyes, nose, whatever.


I am itchy and puffy and drippy. And my eyelids are getting heavier because I took some pretty heavy duty head stuff.


Night-night.




**oh, the picture. taken tonight. Playing with putting larger images on this thing...now I can't get them smaller. Working on half eyelid power makes me not care so much.

Today.

Today I did a little bit of a lot of things. In the absence of any large projects last week (due to the half marathon), I have decided to go overboard this week. Started a few things I have been wanting to do for a while...but none are at the finished stage (and I have no funny stories to share based on my inabilities...yet), so you can expect to be flooded with those posts next week. For now, here's just a few random things about my day.

I made the decision to send the kids to school in sandals. Well, except for G, because her school has a VERY detailed code for footwear. Any-hoo, breaking in to new sandals for warm weather is always a turning point for me. And I do not take kindly to having to revert back to cold-weather shoes.

I swung by McDonalds on my way to bible study, for my usual Diet Coke. Which, I feel is practically free, because it comes with a coupon for a free red box movie. The guy at the drive thru window, however, was a little chintzy with my D.C....leaving a whole inch and a half empty up top. I briefly debated turning around and having him top it off. Seriously.

I ran four miles this afternoon and thought I was going to die. Had to walk twice. Didn't I just run 13 miles in the pouring rain, 5 days ago? What is my problem?

I am experimenting with refinishing a piece of furniture. I am painting it black. Or at least I thought it was. After the first coat, the paint appears to be a dark blue.

At dinner I asked Big J what words rhymed with pet. Bet. Get. Let. Shet. We almost died laughing.

Days like today make me want to garden. In theory, it sounds like something I would like. I would love to grow my own veggies. But I have tried to grow things for the past 4 summers, and all of it has been dead by July. I have even breathed a sigh of relief in the past few weeks as our front yard has started to bloom and grow...we re-landscaped last year and I'm pretty sure I gave it half the water it actually needed. I'm thinking gardening is not my bag and I need to LET IT GO.

I am in serious Easter Candy withdrawal. I think my long-favored Cadbury mini-eggs have lost their throne to Mini Malted Robin Eggs. Yum.

Teletubbies is the most annoying children's T.V. program. Of. All. Time. And it is a current obsession of my younger kids.

There are ducks hanging around our yard, and I think the female is lookin' to lay some eggs. Two years ago, a duck (maybe the same duck) laid eggs in our yard and it was so fun for our kids to watch. G is already super protective of the ducks and even made a sign for our fence that says "Do not hit the ducks". She's very concerned that a golfer or a rowdy child might harm them.

That's all I got. Later peeps.

I eat cereal out of boobs.

Here's something I've been meaning to show you for a while now...it seems time is getting away from me!! Ever since G had the fine motor skills to hold a pencil, I have been saving artwork. And lots of it.





We've done some work to the house over the past 5 years (since we've lived here), and in that time, the piles of art have grown, impressively. Because you know me, and my inability to throw ANYTHING away. Particularly the fruits of my creative children. The problem here is that none of it is stored in any sort of order, or with any sort of care. Just piles. On top of furniture, in the corners of closets, under beds.





Well, since my oldest child is only six...and there are three others quick on her tail, you can imagine that I will have enough toddler art to wallpaper our house 5x's over, in about a year. Yes, some purging must be done.





But I'm not emotionally ready for that. So here's the next best thing.





My kitchen art wall...with each piece condensed to a 5x7 size. This is PERFECT for toddler art, because let's face it, most of that stuff is just big blobs of paint on a large piece of paper. I picked the prettiest part of the blob and cut a 5x7 piece out to frame. Which, I think, makes it look kind of cool and arty.





Actual pictures that Grace drew were easier, and smaller. Some worked great for this size, others I'm saving for our more serious art wall in our hallway upstairs (where I am having frames cut for my most favorite pieces). Having frames custom made, however, can be expensive in the long run...so the kitchen wall is also my solution for making kids art fit into conventional sized frames. Anyone else out there notice how all kids art paper is never the size of a normal frame??? What genius is going to right this injustice against parents?





What I am also learning in my dear old age (of 33), is that this is art that I instantly LOVE. I've had a hard time figuring out what it is I like, in terms of home decor. For a long time that meant anything green and with flowers. And, I think I am finally coming to grips with the fact that it doesn't have to be in a pottery barn catalog for it to be awesome. Truth be told, I'm not really a pottery barn kind of gal...but I like that they have pretty rooms that are all put together and not a work in progress (it has been over 9 years...and we are still in progress). I'm envious of the "completeness", not necessarily the stuff in it.





But that's the thing...I've never really known what I like. Case in point: I registered for really expensive and beautiful ceramic bowls when we were getting married. They are super heavy, deep and painted with blueberries. I love the bowls because they are different. But I do not own anything else in blue. They match not one thing in this house or kitchen. And Mike likes to remind me almost weekly, that the blueberries, do in fact, look like boobs. Sigh. Twenty-somethings should never be allowed to register for a lifetime of home goods. That's my two-cents.

Thirty-something me is way different, much more practical and LOTS more confident in my choices and styles. I only wish I had a 200+ guest list to redo it all over again!

On being fair.

Did you know that "fair" is an impossibility amongst four children?



My two year old told me so.



Well, maybe no in those exact words, but the general screaming/unhappiness hinted strongly at it. And while I understand "three-year-old" (a language/general temperament all its own), it doesn't always translate exactly.



Loud screaming, followed by several loud "No's" typically means there is an injustice happening. As opposed to a loud scream, followed by an even longer pause, followed by constant wailing, which indicates an injury which may or may not include the spillage of blood. The greater the pause, the greater the chances for bleeding...or noticeable bruising.



So today was just one of those days when cries of injustice were broadcast from every corner of our house. And yard.



Everyone wants a blanket. The same blanket.



Everyone wants a bike. The same bike.



Everyone wants to swing. First.



So referee mom steps in to the middle of a battle to determine who had it first, who claimed to have it first and who got there last but just decided to grab it and claim it anyway. Impossible. Little J tends to get the brunt of the punishments in this method of mommy-ing, because let's face it, he is kind of a bruiser.



Enter scorecard mommy. Big J had it first last time, so it's L's turn now. Little J picked the movie yesterday, so it's G's turn. L gets to ride down the hill one time and then it's Big J's turn. This form of parenting works for approximately 10 minutes, until I forget who's turn it is in the ultimate pecking order of the household.



So after the 30 or 40th judgement was handed out today (who's counting, really?), I got to thinking about the goal here. Fairness. Wait, why fairness, exactly? Because let's face it, in this context we're not talking about fairness to the human race in general. Or to others. We're talking about what's fair to me, myself and I. Screw the rest of you, I am having the last oreo because I ate my lunch first.



I really hate that that's what the majority of battles (and my solutions, really) have become about. That I am teaching my children to expect what's fair. That somehow their actions warrant some kind of favorable judgement on their part. Or that the universe will always be on your side if you get there first, or wait your turn, or ask politely. I have two issues with this: associating good choices with rewards, and implying to them that life is always going to be fair (which, it isn't)....and then expecting them not to throw a hissy-fit or a self-righteous tantrum as adults. We've all seen it. I've even done it myself.



I'm not really sure how one would teach humility. Putting others first. Without associating it with some sort of reward. Leading by example would be a great step...if I wasn't so darn selfish myself. I mean, rushing them impatiently into bed so that I can watch Grey's Anatomy is not necessarily the definition of servanthood. Yes, moms, we serve in the stinky diaper/vomit trenches daily...that part I don't really have a problem with. I knew I signed up for it. It's the unexpected waking in the middle of the night, surrendering my car radio, lack of bathroom privacy, loss of my free will/freedom that I tend to gripe about. The all-encompassing nature of this job that changes everything about me...and bad habits do not go down without a fight, I am learning. Especially selfish bad habits. I have no good, fix-it answers here...except prayer that God will mold their hearts despite my shortcomings. Or at least send them a good therapist to unravel it all.

Riddle me this.

How do you tell a difference between potatoes purchased today, last week, and anywhere from 2-4 weeks ago? No clue myself, I was just curious, seeing as these babies all seemed to have congregated in my bread basket (listen, I can't have a basket for every food in the universe, so they are roomates). So I have either discovered an above-laminate-countertop potato root that is sprouting like mad....OR....I have a problem hoarding potatoes. Possibly the most common vegetable of all time.

Although, honestly, I don't think my infamous hoarding issues can be blamed. I go to the grocery store every Monday. And I never take the time to figure out if I have any of the items I "supposedly" need. I am a classic re-buyer. Don't believe me?

How many boxes of linguine can you count?

Here's the over-purchase that has plagued me for years. As Mike and I were packing to move out of our first house, we discovered a gang of baking powder. I believe (Mike can back me up), that at its peak, we (excuse me, I) had accumulated 8 cans of baking powder. In humor, I think we gifted four of them, leaving my stock below. Considering that I have never used more than a teaspoon of baking powder for any given recipe, I think it's safe to say that I can will these to my great-great-grandchildren. Kids, you can thank me later.

Mike would be giddy if I could somehow manage to cook an entire month's worth of dinner from ingredients currently housed in our fridge/freezer/deep freeze/pantry. No doubt it can be done, I am just completely unaware of a recipe that calls for pasta, baking powder and potatoes. And if I could indeed, find one, I'm not sure I could eat it for a month straight. I'm just saying.

And on a completely unrelated note...after yesterday's half marathon escapade, it seems I can barely walk. Going down stairs is the WORST. At this point, I do not trust my muscles ability to support me, not one little bit--and I definitely don't believe it's fatigue, so much as mutiny. None of my training runs hurt me...what gives????

It is finished.

The scene at 6:30 a.m in downtown St. Louis was not good. Rain, rain, rain. Which wouldn't be so bad, considering it's Spring and all...but today is the day we agreed to run 13.1 (me) and 26.2 (Mike) miles. Paid $70, and everything, to run for two hours (well, four for Mike) in the pouring rain. Again.

Some of you know that Mike and I ran our first half-marathon in September, in Chicago. During the exact 12-hour time period that Hurricane Ike swept across the Midwest. Fun times.

This is definitely a pattern, because what do you know? 95% chance of rain this morning at 7 a.m....race time. A low pressure system that wasn't really moving much of anywhere. Just sitting. Over St. Louis. In the exact hours that we would be running.

Rain, it seems, may be my secret weapon. It appears I was so freaked out about melting away, that I completely forgot to hyperventilate over the actual race itself. Huh.

So we got going, and you know, it wasn't so bad. Just a light misting, like spit. Started flat, good stuff. People EVERYWHERE.

Run, run, run. Holding a pretty constant pace at about 9:40 minute /mile, based on the math I was doing in my head, while running and attempting not to fall and/or crash into anyone. I was hoping for a 10 minute mile, so I felt I was rocking it. And not feeling the urge to vomit at all--bonus.

Holy hill. Holy hills. Right about mile 6. Do-able, but they are coming one on top of the other. Still okay, thankfully it's flattening out. Oh, until we have to do same said hills in reverse. At mile 10. Stick a fork in me, I'm done.

I really was good until mile 10, and then it all went downhill. And back up. I'm thankful for my faster first 9 miles, because I still managed to finish at EXACTLY a 10 minute mile. Nine minutes faster than my first half!

So, I crossed the finish line and almost felt every muscle in my legs liquefy as we came to a DEAD HALT 20 yards past the finish line (it was a little backed up). Thirty minutes later as it began to really pour, I thought of my amazing husband who was probably somewhere around mile 17. He is really a rock star. A soaking, wet rock star. My self portrait after I finished:


I found my way to the car and changed into something a little less, um, wet...and headed back out to wait for my marathoner. Since I finished, it hasn't stopped pouring. I'm not sure if Mike will still resemble himself, or now look similar to a raisin. I'm keeping an eye out for both options.

We're almost at the four hour mark, and here he comes, right on cue! Up the last of the hills, with .2 miles to go to finish. True to form, Mike does what he says he's going to...finish in 4 hours. 4 hours and 15 seconds to be exact. In pouring rain.

Here's my last look at him before he's officially a marathon finisher! Go Mike, Go!!

And that is the story of the St. Louis Half and Full Marathon 2009.

Hit me baby, one more time.

Leg warmers. Check.

I can knock another item off of my craft-to-do-list.

Months ago, I came across a tutorial for making leg warmers (link here). I got excited (like always), and ran right out and bought cute socks. And they have sat in my closet since then.

Until yesterday, when I had 20 extra minutes before G came rolling in from school. Not enough time to get in a full episode of Gossip Girl or Americas Next Top Model. Definitely too short for a nap. Read? Perhaps, but once I commit, I like to keep at it for a while...so, no reading.

Leg warmers.

You know, when I first looked at this tutorial, I thought it was more complicated. And I've come to believe it's really hard to describe how to "create"something. The gist of it, is that you can use really cute adult socks to make children's leg warmers.

Basically, the creator of this tutorial used a normal trouser sock, cut the heel and foot sections off, took the leg section in a bit, and added a lower cuff (that was constructed out of the foot portion of the sock). Sounds complicated, but once I figured out what she was doing, it took less than 5 minutes per pair.

Here's the kicker...this tutorial is intended for leg warmers to fit babies. I just assumed that since my girls are so much smaller than me, that I would need to take in the width of the sock to stay tight around their little legs. What I learned after sewing my first pair, is that adult socks fit with adequate tight-ness around 6 and 4-year-old legs. No cinching required, which made this all the quicker. Cut the heel and foot sections, create the lower band, attach and done. I didn't even pin anything in place...since a leg warmer is all scrunched up anyway, who cares if my seams aren't perfect??

Perfect for the 70 degree days that are a little chilly for shorts and too warm for heavy coats. Grace channeled Britney Spears today, wearing a pleated khaki shirt and leg warmers. I say this in cuteness, not sexy school girl-ness.

Oh, and the best part. These socks (which were not the original socks purchased for the project...I'll get to those later) were less than $2 per pair on clearance at Target.

Happy Weekend!

****On a totally unrelated sidenote: Blogger is driving me CRAZY with their formatting. Sorry my paragraphs are running together...I have tried spacing them, but whenever I post, they scrunch together again. And since I am sooooooo non-technical, I have not idea how to fix it, aside from trying to press enter 50 times with no success. If anyone has any suggestions, I am all ears!!!

Legos and a mob of misfit toys.

Ah, Lego....we meet again.

My Achilles heel as a parent is Lego. I have a strong dislike for them, mostly because they are impossible, and really tough on my self-esteem. I follow the directions, I swear I do, but I'm always missing something. Or think I am missing something, until my husband takes one look and reconfigures the thing in seconds flat.

Today's adventure was totally of my own doing. You'll remember Little J turned 3 yesterday, and received this as a present:

Here we go.

Instruction #1: Do not play with Lego in grass. Thanks Lego people. I may be a tiny-interlocking-blocks idiot, but even I knew that. Why not also include a graphic instructing me not to play with these in the sink or a baby's crib?

And this is where they kill me. The pieces are packaged in four totally random bags. And there are like a ka-gillion of them. Yes, I know the instructions say to separate all the pieces by color first. Why couldn't they do that when they packaged the pieces????? I have three YOUNG children, there is no time for sorting. Because if I lose their attention now, someone is bound to use the swinging-arm technique to send the infinitely small pieces flying to all corners of the room.

Twenty minutes later, we have it. Done!

With one small fatality. Lego-tractoring, it seems, can be dangerous.

So later that day as the kids were sleeping, an angry mob of misfit toys decided to take action. It appears they band together when there is a be-heading. Proving my theory that this house is indeed the playground of tiny crazy people (and animals) who happen to supply their own cupcakes and bananas.

Happy Birthday, Little J!

He's officially 3, which means all baby-ness is gone. We have entered the big-boy years.

But in the spirit of April 15, 2006, here is how Little J came to enter the world:

Many of you know we had quite an ordeal with the wondertwins. Being born at 25 weeks gestation and all, we lived between our home and our beloved St. John's hospital for six months. And when we did eventually bring those trouble-makers home, they were connected to feeding tubes and oxygen tanks and heart monitors that would go off like an air raid siren at all hours of the night. I believe I know what it is like to live through war after that experience.

Needless to say, three months after our twins escaped from the NICU, we found out that Denckhoff #4 was on his/her way. Shocker. Especially considering that we did in-vitro to have said wondertwins.

Life went on as normal for a while...until my pre-term labor caught up with me, and one day on a routine visit to the OB, the nurse practitioner thought I might actually birth the baby in their exam room. I was OBLIVIOUS. Yes there was pressure. Yes there were contractions. That was everyday of my life. Apparently that was also pre-term labor.

Enter in to my two-week hospital stay, at my beloved St. Johns. Fun times for Mike, who now had non-walking twins (one of whom vomited after every meal) and a three year old to tend to on a 24-hour basis (picture #2, above, is just to show you the herd we were bringing a newborn into). My hospital stay really should have been just for a couple of days of observation, but wouldn't you know it, full-blown labor actually reared it's ugly head HOURS before my release.

After 2 weeks, when the contractions were under control with a strict dosing of meds, and after much begging/crying/promising, they did actually let me return home on strict bed rest...where I remained plastered to a Lazy-boy for three more weeks. Easter Sunday I was cleared to resume life (36 weeks pregnant) until my scheduled c-section, or the onset of labor.

My water broke in the early morning hours of Saturday...between Good Friday and my promised freedom on Easter. I thought I was having a girl all along...looking back, only a boy would cause such a riot.

Little J was born at 6:15 that morning...exactly a month early. There was no water left in his amniotic sac by the time I was rolled in to surgery...and even with a beautiful epideral, I can still remember feeling him crawling under my skin. That kid was moving...even my doc commented, and we all took a second to watch him fitfully squirm, as if trying to find is own way out via my ribs. His arrival was attended by one of our beloved NICU nurse practitioners (we had not even been out of the NICU a year), who declared him healthy enough for the 5th floor.

He threw us into a panic a couple of times by holding his breath and turning blue, had a little trouble holding his temperature, his blood-sugar levels were all over the place and he was losing weight like no ones business in those early days...which led to a killer fight between me and my pediatrician. But he survived. He slept for a month straight and then literally took on the world screaming. This kid is the baby, and he knows it.

And I know it. I'm patient with him in ways I haven't been with the other 3...I cherish his now non-existent baby-ness in ways I never did when the older kids. He's my fighter, my poop-disturber, my attention hog. My Joshie. He likes things on his terms (explains my pregnancy); he is a BEAR if you wake him; he throws a fit if you touch/look at anything in the house he considers his (which is everything). He is also the best surprise we've ever received; awesomely cuddly; full of "I Love Yous"; his fierce independence met with amazing passion for all things he loves, like puzzles and chocolate milk and riding his bike down the hill on our street.

Happy Birthday Little J!! You are officially a three year old!!

Randomness.

This is a low-key week for me. Got a big race coming up on Sunday...although "racing" is not exactly what I will be doing. While I will be participating in this event with thousands of people, I will, in no way, be moving with any kind of speed or be driven by any sort of competition. My motivator: not passing out in front of any one of the many people I know who will be running in/cheering at this event.



Any-hoo, when I say low-key week, it means no projects that keep me up at night. Which is hard, because my dream to-do list is, like, 1000 projects deep (and growing by the minute). There is an old dresser in my basement just screaming for a make-over that includes intense sanding and painting. That baby would take all of my evenings and cost me a few brain cells via paint-fume inhalation. The smarter part of me is saying no.





This week, anyway. Although, come to think of it, I could stand to use a few brain cells to dull the pain of what I am going to do on Sunday. Not complaining, I promise.





All this to say, I am sharing more kids art, because that is how I fill the day...but my evenings are spent on the couch (with my laptop, because it is like an extra limb to me). Watching American Idol and wondering why people are so in LOVE with this Adam character. The screeching hurts my ears...which begs me to ask the question, am I hearing tones that normal people don't (possibly in the dog-pitch range?)...because that's what he sounds like to me.





Wow, I am really digressing tonight. Here are our birds nests...I have been meaning to try these for a couple of weeks, but the instructions I found called for air-dry clay, which I have found to be very expensive. Well, the good Lord heard my craft desperation, and just happened to send me a miracle in the form of a free recipe for air-dry clay at the Kirkwood Parents-as-Teachers Discovery Room today. Just sitting there on the bookshelves like manna from heaven. It is true that he meets our deepest needs. Even in crafting.




These babies are currently drying on our counters and are looking a little like dried playdoh....we'll see what comes of them tomorrow. But the kids had fun, it was EASY-PEASY and a good "spring" craft idea. If only it were actually spring and not the endless arctic around these parts.




Recipe for the air-dry clay: 1 c cornstarch, 2 c baking soda, 1 and 1/4 c water. Mix in a pot, when ingredients are combined heat on low...stir continuously and remove from heat when the mixture resembles mashed potatoes. Place in a bowl to cool.




Later.

My second favorite thing about Easter.

So, nothing really beats poop at the dinner table...but I have to say, this was my "non-messy" favorite part of Easter 2009.

And it all comes back to the jars.

Last year, I tried baking in canning jars for the first time. It was awe-some. The cuteness factor goes through the roof, but also, the moist-ness of the cake is outstanding. Especially if you cook the cakes the night before and then put the lids on the jars.

I made dessert for Easter, and couldn't resist the jars. In fact, I was thinking more of the packaging than the actual quality of the dessert when I volunteered for this task...but spring, and Easter made me think of strawberry shortcakes...yellow cakes (in a jar) topped with whipped cream and berries. Maybe some ice cream if we are feeling crazy.

It was great. I used a yellow cake out of a box (which, makes exactly 12 jars). The jars are large (be warned), definitely a 2-cupcake size. But it's Easter...and if you can't celebrate the resurrection with a little fat and sugar, well, what can you do?

To add a little extra ZING!, G added some personalized artwork. We have full-page label paper that I traced the jar lids on to...she added the "Easter" illustrations, which included a dog wearing bunny ears, our family and Jesus. Add a little ribbon, and there you have it.

Now to figure out what to do with all the loot from the Easter baskets and the egg hunts. Pointers? How do I put the plastic eggs away when they are still full of jelly beans and doo-dads? I know, I know....eat the beans, pack it up. That plan doesn't work so well with 4 kids...that's a lot of sugar I have been inhaling (all in the name of tidying, right?) and there is still not an end in sight.

Help?

My favorite part of easter. Hands down.

We have had a fun-filled weekend. Egg hunt and lunch with a gaggle of cousins yesterday. Egg dying last night. Easter baskets this morning. Church. Egg hunt and lunch with Mimi and Landad today.

And tonight's, traditional, Easter dinner.

Rack of Lamb.

Twice Baked Potatoes.

Green beans.

Fruit salad.

And a diaper full o' poop.

Let me preface by saying that L told her dad that she did, indeed, need to be changed. He translated that to mean sometime in the next week. She cut him some slack. But when a half and hour passed and no re-diapering was done, she took matters into her own hands.

And handed her daddy a diaper full o' poop at the dinner table. Sometime after the strawberry shortcake dessert.

Libby, 1. Daddy, 0.

And so I don't leave you with an image of bodily waste on this day of the risen Savior, here are a few other fun shots of the weekend. On top of the diaper disaster, you can add the "merry-go-round" of death to your images of our holiday (no children were taken to the hospital, FYI).

Happy Easter!