Today the inevitable happened: Little Husband rolled off the couch and fell on his head (don't worry, he's okay).

It was only a matter of time. That kid was a whirling dervish from 20 weeks gestation. He *never* sits still. The only time he lets me hold him close to me is if he is in my lap and we're reading a book. He won't take naps with me, he won't cuddle and prolonged hugs are out of the question. Yesterday he was trying to dive off the side of the couch and the only thing preventing him from doing so was the vise-like grip I had on his ankle.

He needs to be more like his father. His father cuddles with and hugs me all the time. Sometimes while mid-embrace I'll look over to see Little Husband watching us, as if he's greatly comforted by our display of affection. The other day while Husband was hugging me I felt a tug on my pants leg. I looked down to see Little Husband looking up at us with his arms out, asking to be held. I picked him up and put him in between me and Husband and we hugged him with everything we had, but he quickly wanted no part of the group loving. That's just how he rolls.

Which brings me to him rolling off the couch. He was drinking a bottle and I, as usual, was sitting next to him with one hand wrapped around his ankle for safety. For one split second I let go to stretch, turning toward him as I did so (if I couldn't keep a hand on him, I would keep an eye on him). To my horror, he was no longer on the couch. I literally saw him dropping down and then heard the sickening thud as the back of his head connected with the wood floor. It was all in slow motion which is such a weird phenomenon. I mean, how on earth is the brain capable of slowing down events in that manner?

I swooped down and picked him up. He was silent for a moment as he digested what had just happened. I waited for the blood curdling scream that I knew was coming but what I got instead was much worse. He let out a high-pitched muted wail, a keening, and kept it up for several minutes as I held him to me, helpless. Husband grabbed a flashlight and we shone it in his eyes to make sure the pupils were dilating (they were). Then Little Husband did something that he's never done his entire life: he laid his head down on my breast and let me hold him to me. We stayed that way for thirty minutes as Husband continued to check his pupils and responses to various stimuli. When he smiled, we knew he was feeling better. When our handyman walked in the door and Little Husband emitted a banshee cry as a way of greeting him, we knew he was going to be okay.

I would never forgive myself if something happened to my little Wild Indian, especially on my watch. After all, it's my job to protect him and he trusts me 100% to do so. Consequently, I've had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach all day. This is the exact same feeling I had when we first found out about his heart condition. Fragile. Breakable. That's how I feel. I guess the feeling is the same because today--like back then--I was reminded just how quickly I could lose my little man.

And that's not an option.

Cranradish-Salsa Jelly

In keeping with my Mother of the Year status, today, while making Little Husband a jelly sandwich, I first grabbed this:



Then, shaking my head at my absentmindedness, I grabbed this:



I meant to grab this:



Why is "clear jar with a white label and metallic green lid" so popular right now? Seriously, if I'd accidentally fed him either of the first two I'd have one helluva diaper to change later!

Is that rocket fuel you're rubbing into my feet?

For those of you not familiar with Groupon, it's a site that offers a daily discounted deals from local businesses. For instance, a local restaurant may offer the chance to purchase a $50 gift certificate for only $25. The buyer has a certain amount of time (usually a few months) to use the certificate. The idea is brilliant and the savings are awesome. Businesses are attracted to Groupon because of the instant, high-volume sales it generates. That and the fact that it's excellent marketing for the business.

I get a daily email from Groupon that details the deal offered that day. Here was today's deal:

"The hands are the astronauts of the body-the first explorers to make contact with any matter in your orbit-and the feet are the blazing rockets that propel you into space. Take care of your trustworthy space objects with today's Groupon to Polish Nail Spa: $40 for an essential mani and ultimate pedi (a $73 value)."

Are they kidding?!? Isn’t a spa supposed to be relaxing? There’s something about being rocket-propelled around space (by my feet, no less) that sounds pretty stressful. No thanks, Groupon!

Still Got It

Last night while Husband was hard at work in our office, I wrapped a white dinner napkin over my head, snuck out to the pool area through the master bedroom French doors, worked my way over to the office and--while hunched over and screaming--rapped on one of the office French doors. I like to think that my appearance and expression resembled a mix between the witch in Snow White and that guy in The Scream painting. Husband casually looked in the direction of my knocking, then, upon seeing me, his eyes widened and he joined me in screaming.

Oh yes, I'm back.

Finish this blog post

"Last night our new bed shook like the world was coming to an end. It wasn't."

I was looking through old blog post drafts and stumbled upon the one in quotes above. It was written just two months into my pregnancy. There is no title and is comprised of just those two sentences. I have no idea what the rest of the story was, but my imagination is running into overdrive. Knowing my rules for blogging, I am pretty sure that this story did not have a lascivious nature, but I dunno...

Losing It

I accidentally wore these to the dog park today:



Seriously, I'm losing it. I'm just glad I remembered to wear pants. I was walking along when I realized that my feet were getting hot. "That doesn't make any sense," I told myself, "Why are my feet hot?" Then I looked down.

They're hot because they're encased in big, white fuzzy slippers!

More Like a "Last" than a "First" (also known as the "Goodbye Cheeseburgers" post)

It was inevitable. It had to happen. Much to my despair, nursing Little Husband is nearing an end.

I remember in the beginning how I had *such* a hard time getting The Mighty Stubborn One to accept this medium of food intake, i.e., he didn't want to latch on. "Don't give up for seven weeks," a wise mother-friend told me, "it will get better." I didn't and it did. That was some of the best advice I received to date.

It's hard to describe the feeling that washes over you when nursing your baby. Words like "tender" and "magical" come to mind. There's a closeness there that is indescribable and a certain feeling of pride as you watch your baby grow and know that it's a direct result of the nourishment that your body is producing. It doesn't hurt that nursing allows you to spend thirty unfettered minutes snuggling with your baby and inhaling his sweet baby scent. It's such a precious, private moment.

I'll miss cradling him in my arms as I absorb his warmth and plant kisses on the top of his sweet, downy-soft head. I'll miss his plaintive cries as he calls out to let me know that he's hungry and then latches on, sobbing, as if he hasn't been fed in days (Husband and I were always charmed by this bit of drama). I'll miss laughing during the later months as he would break his latch at the slightest sound, as if even the noise of a passing car warranted his attention. Most of all, I'll miss those groggy early mornings when I would tuck Little Husband into bed with with me and nurse him until we both snuggled into a comfortable sleep. These days, I can't get The Whirling Dervish to take a nap with me for anything.

Alas, though, nursing isn't supposed to last forever. Little Husband's regular food intake has increased and my milk supply has decreased and the only way I can get him to nurse is if he's starving. This limits us to early morning nursing sessions.

While I'm glad that I was able to stretch it out this long, I do wish that I could nurse LH through cold & flu season since the anti-bodies that I pass to him seem to do wonders in staving off illness. Although he's "fully repaired", I somehow still have the mindset that I am protecting a frail infant with a heart condition and I want to do everything in my power to make sure that I send him out into the world with as much protection as possible. I guess this is the first step in cutting the apron strings, right?

Try as I might, I don't see much benefit to losing my status as a milk maid except that all my old shirts finally fit again. My ravenous appetite can no longer be satisfied with plates of cheeseburgers and greasy fries. Junk food, such as pizza, will once again have to be eaten in rations, and instead of watching the numbers on the scale creep down, I suspect that I will now stand there in disbelief as they creep back up.

Kind of like how I felt throughout my pregnancy.

Still, I plan to limp along, nursing LH with whatever ounce or two I've got to spare, until one day there's simply nothing left to give to him. Hopefully by then I'll be ready, but I doubt it.