My Baby Isn't an Over-Achiever (He's Just a Baby)

The little stud muffin is 7 months old now. He falls right between his sisters as far as his size at this age. He's taller and thinner than Kailyn, but not quite so tall and chunky as Chloe was. Being the third baby, though, he's lucky to be measured at all.

I always thought that third (or last) child syndrome was born of not caring as much, having less time, or being more tired. However, I think now that I'm actually dealing with it first hand, I can see that it's actually born of experience.

Lately I've seen a LOT of braggy new mom posts on Facebook, and rightfully so. I was a first time mom to a first-born child at one time as well. And while all moms think their kids are advanced, mine really WAS advanced. She could count to ten before she could walk, which she was doing just after her first birthday. Her memory and vocabulary have always been off the charts. I, as all new moms do, attributed it to her fantastic genes (my half, of course) and my stellar parenting. I must be friggin Super Mom, right?

That's been the underlying gist of the posts I see. I've wanted to post my own satirical status about MY little guy, but I feel like it would come across as either bitchy or mean (toward the little guy).

So here it is.

My little guys is 7 months old. He spends the majority of his waking hours strapped to my chest in the single most important baby-item I ever bought, the Ergo carrier. He HAS rolled over a few times, but he rarely does. He can sit up now, but that is a fairly new trick. He isn't crawling yet. He won't eat solids at all, and he's tried everything from rice cereal to table food. He doesn't sleep through the night, he's the only one who's ever used a paci, and he hates his crib.

I'm not complaining. This is mostly all my doing, whether purposely or not. You might see this as a list of things my little guy falls short on, but this is actually MY bragging list.

I wear him around and carry him everywhere because he LOVES the security. He doesn't always have my full attention like the first-born did, but he always knows I'm right there, heart-to-heart with him. He's never in danger of being dropped or bounced in a shopping cart accident, because he was only carried in a car seat to and from the car.

He doesn't spend a lot of time lying on the floor, because frankly that's like putting a little lamb in the lion's den at my house. He does, however, enjoy sitting in his Bumbo, his jumper, or even on the couch where he can watch intently as his sisters inadvertently teach him the ways of childhood.

He's still exclusively nursing, which doesn't bother me one bit, but it's not for lack of trying. He's just not quite ready for solids, whether it's emotionally or physically (likely both) All babies are born with immature systems, including digestive. Why on Earth anyone deems it a "success" to shove processed, pureed carrots down a 3 month-old baby's throat I'll never know. Just because they can swallow it, doesn't mean their body needs it, or that they're digesting it properly.

This, in part, is likely why he doesn't sleep all night. A fully nursing baby digests quickly, therefore becomes hungry more often. The pediatricians recommend stopping feedings after midnight at 6 months. I did this with my first-born. I taught her to self-soothe by withholding milk and rocking through the crying. This guy comes to my bed (if he's not there already) around 2am and happily nurses and snuggles the rest of the night in our bed. I've not broken this baby because I know that "this too shall pass" all too quickly. Before I know it, he will think he'd rather die than sleep next to his weird old mom in her underwear.

You see, by the third baby, I've learned that loving is more important than pushing. I've learned that while it's important to teach your children things, it's just as effective to allow them to learn as they go. Who cares if your kid knows his ABCs when he's 18 months or when he's three? He'll need them for pre-school, so as long as he's prepared for what he needs, the rest of it is for the birds.

I've never known a child yet who graduated high school but couldn't go to college because he wouldn't get out of Mom's bed. I've not known a teenage boy who only wanted milk. While I've known a grown man or two to claim to have s#!t his pants, I don't think I've known one who wasn't properly potty trained. They're babies such a short time, and then we go rushing them to see what new thing we can "teach" them to do before everyone else, when in reality they can learn most of it without our pushing. They're built to learn, and I've found that letting them do so at their own pace makes for a much happier mama.

Party Like It's 1999....

They say two-thousand zero-zero party over, oops out of time. So tonight we're gonna party like it's nine-teen-nine-tee-nine! Nineteen ninety-nine!

It was our graduating year. Not just everyone has a Prince song for their graduating year. At that time we looked at those lyrics as a premonition. It was SO! FAR! AWAY! and when we got there, when we were 'grown' and out of here, we were going to PARRRRRTAY!

Now we're in our 30s. Some of us have teenagers, others have new babies, some have both! We are lawyers and businessmen, teachers, fathers, managers, and more. We're educated and intelligent. We've made mistakes, learned lessons, developed wrinkles and gray hairs (ok some more than others, myself included). Now to party like it's 1999 means to be young again, to party like we're not parents with responsibilities and jobs, but kids with the whole world at our fingertips and our whole lives ahead of us. It's funny how time changes so much.

I got my yearbooks out last night after reading a post about an old upper-classman on Facebook. I started with 6th grade and perused through to our graduation. I laughed to myself at the boys I drew hearts next to, the girls I exed out, and the comments I scribbled next to some of the pictures. For years I did not do this, as I thought the books were sacred and should not be written upon, but how I LOVE looking at it now. To go back and not only remember things, but to see the world again through my own eyes and a mind that's changed so much I'm not sure I remember that girl all that much anymore.

The best best best part of my little trip down Memory Lane was reading all the things written in ink inside the covers of the books. There's one girl who NEVER remembered to sign her name, but she wrote the same thing every year, so I know who it was. There are some inscriptions that are several paragraphs long, full of nick names, codes, and abbreviations (most of which I remember, but some that escape me). If I had a dollar for every time I found "L.Y.L.A.S." in those books I'd have a nice savings. There was a boy who left a cryptic message, that I now realize probably would have taken me on a proper date if only I'd been paying attention. One boy I "liked" off and on for years basically told me he was waiting for me and would always be there for me, but I hadn't read what he wrote between the lines until now.

I was left wondering so many things. Wondering why I didn't foster certain friendships. Knowing I succumbed to social expectations sometimes and didn't befriend someone because it might make me look 'lower on the totem pole' that I was desperately trying to climb. I smiled reading one friend's generic 'have a good year, you're a great friend' and realizing we weren't really even friends. She's someone now who is one of the first to comment on a picture I post or send me a message about something. With all the stereo types now diminished and the walls of high school crumbled, we're all not so different anymore.

I'm glad technology came through for us and we weren't restricted to having our classmates' permanent addresses and parent's phone numbers to contact them. I'm glad that when a classmate crosses my mind for some random reason, I can type her name into Facebook and almost instantly see how her life is going and who she has become. I can smile at children's pictures and notice how much they look like their parent at that age. Thank goodness for Facebook, right!

I looked at the past with new eyes. I read what wisdom and memories these children imparted on me and I wonder what they'd say now. Would they still find me funny and witty? Would they still think I'm boy crazy? Would they STILL use the wrong 'YOUR'? Would they see how much I've changed and realize it was a good thing, or would they see it as bad? Does it even matter? Maybe not.

But it's definitely interesting.

Birth Order: A True Story

I pointed out a little girl to a friend and said, "There's the proof of the birth-order theory right there." She looked at me with a quizzical look.

"That girl is the same age as Chloe," I finished. Her jaw dropped.

I looked over at Chloe, my first born, with admiration. She stood quietly in her short striped dress, a little taller than usual on her strappy silver heels, with new studs in her ears and her hair coiffed into a neat little bun. Her tapered bangs were swept neatly to the side, and her little Origami Owl necklace hung around her neck, full of charms that accented her outfit. A pink sparkle shone on her recently glossed lips. She's only seven, but she could have passed for sixteen had it not been for her size.

The jaw-drop was caused by the other girl, who is 'the baby.'

She had her arms wrung around her daddy's neck as he held her on his hip. She would have stood several inches shorter than Chloe, in her round-toed patent flats with buckles. She wore thick tights under a below-the-knee frilly dress. A stretchy, colorful beaded necklace encircled her neck. Her bangs were thick and cut straight across her brow, and atop her head sat a bow the size of my out-stretched hand. She was fully seven, but could have passed for three had it not been for her size.

Could it be different parenting styles? Different taste in clothing? A difference in what is deemed 'appropriate' for the age-group by each family? Possibly. But from where I stood I saw a first-born and a baby, born in the same year, who told completely different stories just by standing there.

The Baby

As we speak, he is snuggled beneath his Ergo carrier, strapped to my chest, fast asleep. He's almost 3 months old, and still I haven't revealed his birth story. His birth announcements still scatter the table, addressed but un-mailed. His baby book is filled out to the point where I left the hospital, and it contains no pictures.


He is THE baby.


You know, the one that occupies most every family. The youngest. The one who gets forgotten, whose firsts don't always get documented. The one who wears hand-me downs, plays with used toys, isn't fussed over like a first baby. The one whose only pictures are part of a group of kids, or the entire family, if he has any pictures at all. The one who has three sleepers and a couple of 'going out' outfits compared to his older siblings who had an outfit and matching socks and accessories for every occasion, and were NEVER seen in their sleep-and-plays. He's the one who will be wild, won't be disciplined as sternly, will get to do things the big kids didn't get to do, and it will all be attributed to his poor, tired mother.


If you know THE baby well, though, you know he comes with another perspective. He's the one doted upon by his mama. He benefits from the years of parenting experience. His upbringing is more relaxed, and being the last, he is babied far longer than the first child who was expected to grow up and reach milestones faster than anyone else's child. Babying her would only hinder her progress.


Blake Shelton puts it pretty well...


"My brothers said that I was rotten to the core
I was the youngest child, so I got by with more
I guess she was tired by the time I came along
She'd laugh until she cried, I could do no wrong.
She would always save me, because I was her baby."


It's our song. I sing it when I rock him. I'll think of it every time he flashes his twinkly smile and gets away with something. I'll cry listening to it when he leaves home. We'll dance to it at his wedding to the woman who will never be good enough for him, but who I'll embrace with open arms because she makes him happy. I'll play it for his kids and tell them stories about his childhood.


He's my baby. My last. My only boy. He holds the keys to my heart.


He has a birth story, but it's not ten pages of details about morning sickness and contractions and hospital nurses. It goes like this:


My daddy wanted a boy, and my mommy didn't want to be an old mom, so they made me when my sister was a baby. The whole time she was pregnant, my mom worried she wouldn't have enough time or patience for me, she worried she wouldn't be attatched to me because I was a boy. Fifteen days before my due date, on my grandmother's birthday, the ONLY day my mama didn't want me to come, I came. When she saw me, she loved me, and she realized she wanted a boy more than anything she had ever wanted in her whole life. Even though she'd been through this three times, she was more in awe of my little miracle than she'd ever been. I'm her baby, and her only boy, and that means those sisters of mine don't stand a chance.

Back to School. Eh.

I have mixed feelings every year about the old "Back to School" gig. Being a student for nearly 20 years, and working in the school system for nearly 6, I feel pre-programmed to HATE back to school. Even though I get to stay home, and even though it's a time a lot of SAHMs look forward to, I have trouble embracing it. While I am excited to have my structure back, I am going to miss my big girl. She is good company (most of the time), a great companion for kid movies, eating out, and shopping, and she is a LOT of help. She's my second set of eyes on baby girl. She's the reason I can shower EVERY day. On the other hand, she's a "MOOOOOOM!" when I'm on the toilet, she's the one taking Baby Girl's toys just to see her mad face, and she's the one leaving cookie crumbs, dirty dishes, and Barbie dolls in a haphazard trail that makes me feel like a dog chasing a coon. In addition to the effects on my home, there are the effects on my wallet. I DREAD the August bank statement, knowing it's like a second Christmas. I LOATHE that stupid school supply list, the worst scavenger hunt known to man. However, I LOVE our yearly shopping trip to Springfield, watching her define her style, helping her find matching shoes, and meandering from store-to-store looking for a good deal. Finally, there are the effects on my girl. It means no more staying up enjoying a late night pretend session with Barbie. It means no more 10 am snack, and no more Good Luck Charlie marathons on rainy days. It means no more runs to the lake, mid-day ice cream cones, or mid-week sleepovers with Nana. It's schedules and school lunches, early mornings and baths at 7, reading, homework, and exhaustion. It's also new activities, kids her age, a structured day, and back to a familiar routine. It's back to seeing friends every day, which can be a good thing, but for my big girl, it's often a struggle. She wants so badly to fit in and befriend almost everyone, but tries so hard and is often rejected. A lot of girls in her class are catty and mean already. They already judge each other based on what they wear, and who their parents are friends with. They sniff out weaknesses like a shark after blood. So it's back to not knowing if it's going to be a good or bad day for her. It's not knowing if she'll disembark the bus with a smile or in tears. It's not knowing if she'll be wanting to pick a fight to vent her frustrations, or if she'll want to sit on my lap, or if she'll just want to be alone. It's back to not being in control. It's giving her heart and emotions to someone else to handle. To mean girls, to ornery boys, to disinterested teachers. She's going from being adored by her baby sis and appreciated by her mom, to a place where she has to work to be liked, and even then fails. They say being a kid these days isn't easy, and that's for sure the truth. But no one ever warned me about the heart-break that comes with being the parent of a kid these days.

What the H-E-double L were we thinking?!

It's getting close to nap time. I know this because the little tantrums-for-no-reason are getting closer together and longer. It's almost like contractions before birth. At first it's just a little fuss here and there, then they become closer, and before I know it she's lying on the floor kicking her feet and crying because she tripped over her big toe and fell on her bottom. She's exhausted.

She fights sleep no matter how tired she is. She is so afraid she'll miss something. I have to send Chloe out of the room, fix her a cup of milk, find her little blankie and baby doll, and start rocking.

She resists the rocking at first because she knows what it means. She always resists it, but it's the only thing that really helps her calm down.

I rock furiously as she cries and pushes and kicks, trying to wiggle away from the wretched nap she so desperately needs.

I sing to her.

Rock a bye baby. She shakes her head no.
Twinkle twinkle little star. She screams louder.
Halleluja? I could use a little higher power right now.
Colder Weather. Zac Brown Band. Works every time. You'd think I'd try it first, but somehow it just feels wrong to start with anything but Rock a bye baby.

Exhausted and mentally drained from the fight, I try not to grit my teeth while I sing, and relax so she will settle. I think of the little bun in my oven sometimes and wonder what the hell we were thinking. Wonder if I'll be nursing a newborn while performing this whole routine in six months, or if she will grow out of it.

While I'm singing and thinking and wondering if I'm headed for the Looney Bin in the next two years, she starts to drift.

I notice my rocking has slowed, almost as if my body is in tune with her. She grabs tight onto her dolly, nuzzles her face into her blankie (why do kids like to sniff blankets anyway?), then, with her eyes closed, she lets out a muffled giggle. Her face is relaxed, and she's almost smiling as she falls away.

Her body is warm against me, and with her free hand she rubs my arm until she's completely gone.

I put my feet up, pull a blanket over us, and watch tv quietly, so not to disturb her.

And suddenly I know EXACTLY what the hell we were thinking. I wouldn't trade this for the world.

Chapter 2: It's My Baby and I'll Wean When I Want To...

"...wean when I want to, WEAN when I want to! You will wean to when you want tooooooo!"

It's no secret I'm a nursing mom. I lie somewhere between a full bottle-feeder and a whip-it-out hippy mom. With this baby, though, I have found myself closer to the hippy end of the spectrum and liking it :)

When Chloe was a babe I was home with her for eleven weeks, then I returned to teaching. She went to daycare 8-4 M-F, so she was introduced to the bottle in the beginning, and though I didn't give her formula at all, she was primarily bottle fed. I nursed her at night and on weekends, but that was it. She was fully accustomed to the bottle, as she had to be, which meant she wasn't very attached to me. She also sucked her thumb, which led her to be an excellent self-soother (though brought with it a terrible addiction we still fight). At ten months she was pretty-well done nursing, and I was fine with that.

When Miss K came along, I wanted to be sure we weren't thumb-sucking again, and the Mister was adamant against the paci. So I fully nursed, and that was it. She never really took to the bottle, likely because I didn't push it. This had me tethered to her night and day, and while it was sometimes emotionally draining, it was also really great for both of us.

As she came on the six-month mark, however, the comments began pouring in. What's the worst is that they come from people I know and love who *should* be supporting my decisions, not questioning them.

When are you going to wean her?
Are you STILL nursing?
Isn't she getting too big for that?
Do you still feed her "like that?"

My easy answer? At what age would you wean from a bottle? Usually that ended the conversation. I don't know why it is anyone's business how long I nurse my infant. It would be different if she were five and I was going to the school at lunch time to nurse her. One day I told someone, when asked when I planned to wean, "Sometime between one year and when she goes to school."

I had every intention of allowing Kailyn to wean herself. She was very attached to me, and I really didn't have the heart to take away her one and only comfort item. However, as she got closer to a year, she became very demanding, making it impossible to go anywhere that I didn't mind feeding her in public. She began throwing tantrums if she couldn't nurse when *she* wanted to. Just before her birthday I learned I was pregnant again, and decided to go ahead and wean her at 13 months. It was a traumatic two-week effort for both of us, but now that she is happily drinking chocolate milk from a cup as a replacement, and using a blankie for comfort at night, there is nothing left to break her from, which feels like a huge accomplishment.

I had no interest in nursing a toddler and a new baby, and I knew weaning would be even more difficult if I waited too close to the baby's birth. Those two things alone influenced my decision. If I had not become pregnant, I very likely would have nursed her to 18-24 months or until she stopped on her own, whichever came first.

I've come to learn when you have children, you're kind of damned if you do, damned if you don't. Someone always has an issue with something you do, but in the end it's best to make your parenting decisions based on what you believe is best for your child, yourself, and your family. Now if I can calmly and rationally remember that as I go through pregnancy and infancy one more time....

Chapter 1: Please Don't Feed the Animals Baby

I wish I could remember exactly when it started, but I suppose I've tried to block it out. Somewhere along the way, though, at a definitely inappropriate age, people started offering my daughter food. I'm not talking about veggies or a bite of banana or even a piece of bread. I'm talking about down-right bad for you junk.

Sometimes it was offered to her without my permission, stopped only by me saying, "UH NO!" upon catching the offer.

Usually, though, it was offered to me first.

"Can K have this [cookie, potato chip, Mt. Dew, insert other ridiculous food here]?"

"No," I would always say. Unless it was a unique occasion in which she had just eaten a proper meal and I would allow her a bite of cookie or cracker.

And then comes one of two replies.

"Oh, a little of this won't hurt her. I gave my kids BLAH BLAH BLAH and it was fine!" Judgment. Ridicule. Scoffing. Someone somehow decides that THEIR decision to indulge her is better than my decision to say no. No matter what my reason.

Or.

"Sorry, baby! I wanted to give you this delicious [cookie, candy, chip, pop] but Mama won't let me! I would give it to you, but Mama says no!" Now belittling me TO my child, making me the bad guy (as if the moms don't get that enough), ridiculing me, second-guessing my food choices and decisions without one question as to WHY I say no. Maybe it's almost lunch time. Maybe I need to nurse. Maybe I don't want her to have sugar or caffeine at the wee age of <1 .="" p="">

We were at a family dinner once where she was eating veggies and meat and sipping her water, when she was offered (SHE was offered, as if she can make logical decisions) Kool-Aid and baby snacks. I don't let my older daughter snack DURING dinner, so why would I allow it for my baby? Were the snacks suitable? Yeah. But they were snacks. Offered during dinner. Which starts a habit. And the dialogue when they were offered? "Here, if your mom will even let you have them." Setting me up to either condone the habit, or be the jerk who says no to EVERYTHING even suitable baby snacks.

I'm often talked to as the over-protective, over-zealous, over-sensitive mom who won't allow ANYTHING and needs to just lighten up. But maybe there's more to it than me having an underlying desire to be a wench to everyone we see.

Maybe it's my child, for whom I am responsible. Maybe I had one daughter who had dental trouble, and I would rather amputate my own fingers than to see one of my children go through that kind of pain and emotion again. Maybe I am proud of the fact that my infant LOVES green beans, potatoes, chicken, and WATER. Maybe that makes my life a little easier, and makes dinner time a little more pleasant and makes future food battles MUCH less frequent. Maybe I believe that not stuffing junk food in a child's face helps them LEARN to make healthier choices. Maybe I don't want to deal with the sugar high you'll leave behind.

I don't mind when people ask to give my daughter food, but I do expect them to respect the answer they are given. She's not a zoo monkey here for your entertainment. She is a person I am trying to raise, and I think I'm doing a pretty great job.

Mind Your Own Business, Raise Your Own Kids: Intro

I've mentioned my frustration with it before. The Non-Asked-For Opinion. We are all suceptible to it, in one way or another. Usually in the form of a judgmental-ridden question, that seems inncoent enough, but is riddled with TONE.

Such as:
When are you going to get married (aka why are you still single)?
When are you going to have kids (aka you're getting awfully old)?
When are you going to have another one (aka I would never have so much time between MY children)?
Are you REALLY having another one (I would NEVER have so many children)?

It goes on and on, and gets worse when you become a parent. Suddenly everyone wants to challenge your every decision, and make you feel like you're doing it wrong. What's really weird, is it seems the more you lean toward the healthy, environmentally friendly, natural side of life, the more you are criticized. I think it's almost an attempt to judge before being judged. People think since they do things their way, someone more rigid would be judgmental, therefore they jump the gun and try to make the other person feel smaller.

That's my guess, anyway.

Lately I have had to bite my tongue ENDLESSLY.

And because my Facebook rants can only go so far, I've begun a blog series dedicated to my personal parenting style and those who disagree/disapprove, etc.

Chapters 1-4 are in the works :)

Talking "The Talk"

Sometimes I get "the look" from other moms when I divulge just how much Chloe knows about 'the birds and the bees.'

We've left all the romantic lustful graphic stuff out, other than it being related to "private time" for mommy and daddy, but as far as biology goes, she pretty much knows where babies come from.

There isn't much choice, you know, when she sees a bull mounting a cow, or a calf hanging out of its mama, or our pet pig having his way with a bucket...

It's been a topic among moms lately, so I have been considering my approach a little more in-depth. Recently a read an article that suggests we stop having "THE" talk, in favor of more open conversation throughout life, adjusting as the children mature. I liked that. It's basically what I've been doing, so maybe it was just nice to see it affirmed.

I have no "talk" to dread with Chloe. We simply weave the questions and appropriate conversations into our daily lives.

Recently, this came in handy when she was tearful as I cracked eggs into a bowl.

"Poor little chickies!" she nearly cried. I explained to her that all moms, even me, have 'blank' eggs every so often. She'd questioned the "time of the month" several months back, so we have had that talk, too. It put her mind at ease to know that we weren't murdering helpless baby chicks (most of the time hehe).

I had to laugh, though, last night, when her grown-up subject matter collided with her child-like mind. She was eating her dessert, and stopped to come into the living room and talk with me.

"Hey mom, I gotta queshtion," she said. I raised my eyebrows waiting for it.

"Do me and Kailyn drop eggs every month? Or is it just grown-ups?" I told her as soon as her body was mature enough, probably as a teen, is when that would begin.

"So THAT'S why there's such a thing as Teen Mom," she concluded.

And it gives me a little hope that she's already got a leg up on most teenage girls.

A Happier Halloween

One year ago at this very moment I was at the doctor's office. I had spent the better part of three hours in the emergency room. I was given a 50/50 chance of losing my baby. And there was nothing I could do but wait and see.

It was one of the worst days I remember. I had endured thirteen weeks of constant vomiting, emotional stress, and physical agony and the only thing getting me through it was the hope of a healthy baby. And then there I was, afraid it was all crashing down around me.

Finally they were able to do an ultrasound, and I saw my little girl moving and wiggling about. She had one arm up, and it looked like she was waving. I imagined all the times Chloe had waved at me from a merry go round or ride, smiling, as if to say "Hey, Mom! Look at me! I see you!" and I imagined that's what she was saying.

I still feared the worst, but something about seeing her moving around, as if nothing was wrong, it helped.

I was put on bed rest. I had to miss Chloe's Halloween party, and she was really sad. I rode along to trick-or-treat, but my heart just wasn't in it.

Now, a year later, I have two healthy, wonderful girls who are excited for Halloween. I'm running around like a mad woman trying to get the house work done, and get prepared for the Halloween party at school and at Girl Scouts.

Today that little bean has grown into a chunky little bundle of joy, and though she's not waving at me today, she's smiling, and I wouldn't trade that for anything!

My happy, healthy baby girl ready for her first Halloween. Hopefully she doesn't have any scare-tactics this year.

The Sharp Knife of a Short Life

When I first started blogging, I learned quickly the importance of networking. I began visiting random blogs and following comments to find writers (and possible readers) who meshed with me. About a year and a half (or so) ago, I saw Rachael's link on a Five Question Friday. I read her post, found she was new to blogging, and left her a comment to help her get started.

Over the next few months she became one of my 'bloggy friends.' I don't read a ton of blogs, and I don't follow a ton of people on Twitter. I reserve that for those that I really connect with, or the ones I interact with often. She was one of those. She always had an encouraging comment to leave me, or a sweet tweet.

I remember when she gave her recipe for pulled-pork, and though I had never considered cooking with root beer, I gave it a whirl, and it's the recipe I use to this day. One of the last times she tweeted, she said she was making it and wanted to know how many places to set. I told her to set one for me, I'd be right there (she's from the East Coast, so we knew that wasn't going to happen).

Soon she was talking about her upcoming vacation and how excited she was. She would see her mother in Florida, then head to MO to see a brother. We fancied the idea of having a chance to meet in person while she was here...though it never came to fruition.

Time passed, as it does, and being busy I didn't notice her missing at first. When Kailyn was born I was surprised not to have heard from her, but dismissed it, thinking she could still be on vacation. I looked at her blog, seeing her last post in March, and figuring she was having a dry spell (don't we all). I had already read that entry, so I didn't click on it.

Months passed and as tends to happen, she slipped from my mind. I got used to not seeing her. And out of sight soon meant out of mind.

Then the other day someone tagged her in a Facebook picture.

"THERE she is! She is still alive!" I thought to myself. Using the old cliche, and ready to go comment on the photo to ask where she'd been.

Unfortunately when I did that, I saw the caption. The tagger speaking of her as if she were gone. Talking about missing her and always being with her.

A knot formed in my throat.

I began hard-core creeping, and found that she had passed away. She never made it to Missouri. She was my age, and by some freak illness she died in her sleep while visiting her mother.

My heart was full and heavy. For someone I'd never even met.

I started thinking about all of my bloggy friends. We aren't "close," I guess, but I know what they're up to. I know how their days went. I think of them when I read certain things, or when the weather changes, or when someone mentions Canada. I didn't really realize what a structure these people were in my life, and how truly REAL they are to me.

I've been mourning this loss all week, and realizing that losing a blog friend doesn't hurt any less than losing a 'real' one must.

Goodbye, Rachael. You've been and will be dearly missed.

Munchkin Bags, Inc.

A few months back I was perusing Pintrest and saw a site where you send in your baby's clothes and keepsake items and this lady makes you a beautiful (read: expensive) quilt with the items. I decided then and there that one day I would tackle that project.

I started saving my dollars and I bought myself a spiffy little Singer sewing machine just a few weeks back. Never mind I hadn't sewn since I was a teenager and my granny was teaching me the basics. I was bound and determined to make that quilt.

I still am.

But first I need lots of practice. To start, I brought up some old clothes and scraps and just got the hang of using the machine. I sewed lines and corners. I made some little bean bags. I was just playing. All junk that I could throw away.

In the process, I used an old pair of dress pants and an orange tank top to make a little stachel. Again, just practicing putting pieces together, and how to applique. Chloe thought it was just darling, so she kept it.

Unbeknownst to me, she took it to school in her backpack. I don't care that she took it, but it's just a throw together piece of crap I was playing around with, and I don't want her telling people I made it :)

I guess she sees it differently, though, and so did her friends. This is the conversation we had yesterday.

"Mom, is it ok if I tell people you know how to sew?"
"I guess, why?"
"Sometimes you get embarrassed and don't want me to say stuff. I just wondered."
"Oh. I don't care."
Long pause....
"Can I tell people you made my bag for me?" she asked. I wanted to tell her no, but I could tell she was proud of it, so I decided to model self-confidence and say yes.
"Sure," I said.
"Oh good. Because I already did today, and I have two orders for you."
"Orders?" I asked her.
"Ya. My friend Jane wants a blue one, but it has to be big enough to tote her coloring book. And you can make Jill's just like mine, but with a pink heart," she announced.

So I may not be the world's best seamstress, but I have a six-year-old following you wouldn't believe. Now if I could get them to pay me in something other than bubble gum.... :)

I hate baseball, and I'm spunky

Happy Friday :) I have a blog in draft that is of a very somber nature. I have one in draft in mi cabeza that is a mom story. Then I log in (to work on said drafts) and upon reading the 5QF prompts, find I have good answers there as well. Maybe I'm in a bloggy mood? Either way, be prepared for a bloggy trifecta!

To get things started...5QF

1. Who wakes up in the morning with the kids, you or hubby?
I do. Not to say he isn't awake. He is usually up before we girls are. But I am the one who does the breakfasting and the dressing and the hair-pulling. I make Chloe's lunch and get her out the door, and for obvious reasons I'm the one who nurses Baby K. But none of my children have been demanding, or early risers, so I really don't mind. If we ever have a rotten little boy who wants to play outside at 6 a.m., it will be alllll on the Mister :)
2. Do you watch the World Series even if your team isn't in it?
If the Weaubleau High School baseball team made it to the World Series AND someone I know was playing, I MIGHT watch it. I hate baseball. Hate hate hate.
3. What is the best compliment you have received?
I'm sure that I've had many sweet compliments from many important people in my life. Some of the best ones come from my lil Chloe. But somehow compliments stick a little harder when they are from an unexpected source. Therefore, the following two are the ones that stick with me:

"You say out in the world you are just an average person, but I don't think the world sees you that way."

"You're painfully adorable, and spunky," someone told me. A couple years later, I quoted that person, and said, "Some things one never forgets."

To which that person replied, "One cannot forget what one is naturally."

And sometimes when I feel like a big ol' pile of crap, I think about those compliments, and it makes my day a little better to know people might think I'm adorable and beyond average.

NEVER underestimate the power of your words.  
4. Do/did you dress up to take your kids trick or treating?I only dressed up once. That was Halloween 08. It was epic.

I was "The Beast" :)5. Do you have a favorite bible verse? What is it and why?
I really don't. I don't know why. I know a lot of verses from Youth group and teaching Awanas and Sunday School, but they all have different meanings for different times of life. There isn't one certain one that is my go-to verse.

A "Cow"nundrum

I've always been a bit of a 'fraidy cat. I often ride along on the four-wheeler, but I'm usually screaming, "SLOW DOWN! I DO NOT WANT TO DIE! STOOOOOOPPPPP!!" as we whiz across a field. The other day, however, hubby needed to get his truck from the field, and we took the four wheeler.

I had no choice but to drive it back.

I've never been on the driving side, and I found it was MUCH less scary (and kind of fun) when I was driving rather than putting my life in hubby's hands. I puttered back to the house, proud of myself for a new 'farm thing' I could add to my list of things I can do.

I thought about it throughout the day, thinking I could wrap K and we could go for a ride. I could get a cow in without having to run down the hill and have a heart attack. I could take Chloe for a ride. I had options.

So a day or two later when I heard a LOUD mooooooooo outside my window, it was time to take action.

LIVE ACTION! YEYEYEYEYEYEYEYEE!

The cow was leisurely strolling down the hill, headed to the other field to where several other cows had been moved. I decided I could ever-so-quickly hop on the four wheeler, zoom past the cow, open the gate, then chase her inside.

Sissy was napping, so I could just leave her in her bed and make this quick run. Hubby and company would be so proud of me. Gone would be the days of me calling them every time a cow got out. I would soon be a respected cow-hand, all due to my new ability.

Now never-mind the times I've run cows before. Don't think about the time I couldn't get the Cummins turned around, parked it in the road, and ran a cow in while wearing my athletic shorts and rubber boots, calling her an ol' bitch as people crept past the truck I'd left in the road and no doubt had a good laugh. Never mind the time I had K wrapped and was chasing a handful of cows on foot in the sweltering heat, baby's head just a bobbin' as I ran after them. And don't count the time I chased one down the lane in my car.

No. This time would be different.

I hopped on the four wheeler and started it up (OK, it took me a few tries and a lot of button-pushing...that had been left out of the tutorial).  I knew how to put it in gear, believe it or not! I got it going and away I went! I had to ride up the highway a bit and get behind her. I almost died a couple times as I misjudged the slope of the ditch I was climbing, but I got the ol' girl headed for the lane, and chased her at a reasonable speed toward the gate.

I realized I needed to get ahead of her, so I tried to zoom past.

She cut me off.

I hit the brakes and did NOT fly face first over the handlebars. Success!

I finally got around her and got the gate open, then I headed back to chase her in.

She ran past the gate, and I then proceeded to chase her in circles for quite some time.

Finally I got her headed back toward the gate, and again she went past it, heading for the highway again.

I got past her and was sure I had her this time! All I had to do was turn around and run her in.

She looked back at me, almost with a smirk, knowing the lane was too narrow for me to get turned around without hitting the ditch.

I tried.

And I failed.

And the four wheeler rolled slowly down the embankment until the fence stopped it.

No problem. The fence wasn't damaged. Was just acting as a barrier. A much-needed barrier. All I had to do was turn the thing around and get ol' Heifer in the gate.

Reverse.

There's a little R button.

So I pushed it.

Then pushed the throttle.

Which pushed me harder into the fence.

Reverse.

I never learned how to do reverse.

So, afraid of admitting my little dilemma, I decided I'd put it in neutral and push it back up onto the road. All the while the cow stood, shaking her head at me now and then. She walked right past me and headed back toward the highway yet again. Leisurely, knowing I wasn't going to be chasing her anytime soon.

I finally threw in the towel and made the call.

"Hey babe?"
"What." He could tell by my embarrassed tone I was in a pickle, I'm sure.
"Um," (giggles) How was I going to explain this when I had NEVER taken off on the four wheeler by myself before?
"What?"
"Uh. How do you make the four wheeler go backwards?" He then explained how, which made no sense to me, and told me he would show me when he got there.
"Um. I'm down the lane. I was chasing a cow," I said, laughing. He laughed. Then he came to rescue me.

And he got the cow in.

And now I know how to put the four wheeler in reverse :)