Yes, I'm scared sh*tless.
nananananannanananah I can't HEAR you....
But in the meantime, if you happen to run across my groove, please send her back my way. I need her desperately.
And: our eldest turned eight this week. EIGHT! Keane, you are so intense, so intelligent, so energetic, so tightly wound. I probably worry about you more than any of my children; you burn so hot and bright. I fret that all you have going on - piano, soccer, school, LIFE, is just too much sometimes. How naive I am at this point: I can't even fathom what the years ahead hold, when you and your siblings will be gone more than here, when a dinner with all of us at the table is a rarity.
Oh, and today? I smelled BOY SWEAT on your soccer uniform. Does that happen now that you're eight? Did my laundry burden just increase 300 fold - again?
How I love you, my dear eldest son. You are not easy for me or your father. But we love you so very very much.
Maybe TOO much. We keep having MORE of you.
And in retail news, for those of you who are not suffering from very odd, wavy topography around your midsection, Nordstrom is offering "Triple Points" right now: spend any amount on your Nordstrom card, and you will receive triple the points for each dollar spent, thus entitling you to Nordstrom Notes and other manna from Nordstrom heaven three times as fast.
Party on, Wayne.
Just limit your Percocet.
The pathetic truth is that I have NO excuse for not taking pictures; this little one is SO easy so far! Of course they all are these first few weeks, when they are so tired from just being born and adjusting to life outside mommy's porta-bath, but she is simply perfect. Eating, pooping her brains out (how sad is it that the color and consistency of newborn poop is a fascinating topic of conversation), waking a few times at night for a little meal before falling back asleep - COME ON. CHALLENGE ME.
Well, no, please don't actually. I like this.
Of course I have to remember that the Percocet is, ahem, quite helpful. As is having my mother here, under the guise of live in babysitter/housekeeper/chauffeur/"make sure you're eating enough PROTEIN" monitor.
So those of you on the fence about having another one...go for it, I say! Just make sure you have a good postpartum narcotic and an even better live-in assistant, and you will be just fine.
I continue to be bombarded by emails taunting me with luscious fall fashions; unfortunately my body is still in the throes of extremely funky postpartum lumpiness, so no lovely burgundy tops and skinny jeans for me yet. I am still resorting to these loathsome maternity dresses, for cripes' sake. BUT I can fantasize about BOOTS:
We've had quite a ride in those ten years: several moves, many jobs, a job loss, financial worries, a few dogs, many trips, many pounds lost and gained, a miscarriage...and oh, yeah. Those 4.9 kids. It hasn't always been easy, but thankfully it has never been dull.
I think we'll stick it out for a few more years. Oui, PVT?
And one of the few pictures I have of me pregnant with #5: