tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4333042829696306522024-03-13T09:05:08.234-07:00I Am Pregnant HousewifeFemme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.comBlogger159125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-67563331369427691762010-12-03T12:09:00.000-08:002010-12-03T12:12:35.538-08:00Belly Shot -- 29 WeeksOkay, my sweet Michigan friend, here's the belly shot you requested:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG2tNakwjl25LyGygcPZcz7l9QBkEoJJ3Z1N1hLRoaSzxTrk18WBx_ejfD3CVDiVEqqTkm8uJKn90Ia05pzeFCOoVia4pbyV2bKO1NL-8uXl6jxUIb9eZz_Z-1SmaueJTLwercZmHnZIVY/s1600/Belly+Shot+29+Weeks.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 385px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG2tNakwjl25LyGygcPZcz7l9QBkEoJJ3Z1N1hLRoaSzxTrk18WBx_ejfD3CVDiVEqqTkm8uJKn90Ia05pzeFCOoVia4pbyV2bKO1NL-8uXl6jxUIb9eZz_Z-1SmaueJTLwercZmHnZIVY/s400/Belly+Shot+29+Weeks.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546550954629311970" /></a><br /><br />I'm not a big fan of "the belly shot" since I'm too vain to want to make record of a rapid and steady weight gain, but I can't say no to my friend! Sorry for the lousy picture quality--I wasn't about to setup a tripod and a high-def camera!Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-81229263303501781162010-12-02T18:34:00.000-08:002010-12-02T19:09:39.499-08:00101 Days Later...I am now 202 days pregnant with 78 days to go. It's hard to believe that in 2.5 months Little Femme will be joining our family. So much has happened since I last wrote, yet so much has remained the same.<br /><br />I continue to think about Little Husband and how he will feel when a new sibling appears and competes for my attention. Little Husband is a very independent little kid, but I suspect that his limits will be pushed once he gets wind of the change in our household. My newest concern is that I will miss him terribly while I am in the hospital. I think I'm more attached to him than he is to me. He's my little sidekick, after all. I feel incomplete without him.<br /><br />On that note, today while picking him up from preschool a thought occurred to me: having a child affords you the ability to experience that fluttery, in-love feeling. If you've ever fallen in love, you know what I'm talking about. Your stomach has butterflies, your heart races and you have a wonderful feeling of euphoria. This is how I feel every day when I look at Little Husband.<br /><br />This is not to say he is perfect; he is two, after all. He throws his share of tantrums and tests my patience hourly, but somehow we both manage to get through it and come out the other end with plenty of hugs and kisses for each other.<br /><br />My apprehension about adding a fourth member to our fledgling family is fading. This is entirely due to Husband who always puts his family first. So many times throughout the day we find ourselves talking about our favorite subject, Little Husband, and somehow it never gets old. Husband is my biggest champion and somehow he manages to make me feel attractive in the midst of my ever-expanding waistline. In the dark of the night he reaches out and holds my hand as we drift off to sleep. He is my very best friend and I can't imagine going through this with anyone else. He is a wonderful father and there's no trait more attractive in my book. I thank God for him every day.Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-36611853678035084932010-08-23T15:55:00.000-07:002010-08-23T16:43:56.839-07:00101101 is the temperature outside. 101 also happens to be number of days that I am pregnant. Our Brookstone Wireless Weather Forecaster tells me that it "feels like 106 degrees". I wouldn't know; I've been staying indoors.<br /><br />Unlike my last pregnancy, I don't find myself consumed by thoughts of this baby. In fact, much of the time I completely forget that I am pregnant. I'm not really showing (although in my honest opinion I think I look like I'm getting a beer belly) (husband disagrees but that's because he's sweet). If I lay down I don't look pregnant at all which, in my opinion, is a pretty good argument for laying around the house all day (husband also disagrees). I'm in the second trimester so I no longer have that pesky nausea that plagued me during weeks 8 and 10. I still have my maternity clothes from last time so I'm not worried about finding things that fit. In truth, most of my thought process surrounds Little Husband. I know this will change when baby #2 arrives, but still it's a little disconcerting.<br /><br />Of all the weird things to worry about, I worry that I won't love baby #2 as much as I love Little Husband. Why is that? Do I not think I'll have enough love to go around? One of my more experienced friends told me to think of it this way: my love won't be divided, rather, it will multiply. That gave me some measure of comfort.<br /><br />Still, just the thought of giving birth and spending a few days and nights away from Little Husband makes me sad. I've spent a few days away from him before and it was no big deal for either party, but for some reason this seems different. I will greatly miss reading him bedtime stories and tucking him in at night. As odd as it is to say, I feel like I'll be cheating on him. I know this will all iron itself out in time, but for now this is honestly how I feel. Perhaps I can read his bedtime stories to him over Skype. Not to boast, but no one reads "Barnyard Dance" like me, in fact, if you can't give me a "barnyard beat", you're not a contender. You should hear my "cock-a-doodle-doo" when I read, "Mr Brown Can Moo--Can You?". No wonder Little Husband doesn't know what an inside voice is!<br /><br />For the record, I think I'm having a girl. We've already had a few sonograms and each time I beg the sonographer to see if she can determine the sex but the baby is just too small. Our next appointment is 10 days away at which time I will be almost 16 weeks pregnant. I am hoping at that time that we'll know what we're having. In truth, I hope it's another boy. Nothing would make me happier than having two little wild Indians running around the house. Naturally a girl would be wonderful too. Above all, I just pray that this baby is healthy.Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-75256182183579796682010-06-25T11:43:00.000-07:002010-06-25T12:39:59.824-07:00The Blame GameOne of the most important pieces of baby gear that one should own--in my opinion--is a baby video monitor. We didn't buy one until Little Husband was around five months of age and I could have kicked myself for not getting one sooner. Not only does it give you incredible peace-of-mind as a new parent, it also serves as a great tool for sleep training. Thanks to the video, I knew exactly when I needed to go in and intervene while LH tried to fall asleep. I also knew when to leave him be and let him fall asleep on his own.<br /><br />The video monitor also clued us in to the idiosyncrasies that befell our little man. If he's thrown all of his toys/blankets/pillow out of the crib, we knew that he had pooped his diaper. If he was standing and bellowing at his bedroom door, we knew that we were being too loud in the kitchen. We quickly learned that if he cried out in the middle of the night, it was because he was searching for his beloved "Blankie" in the dark. Once the object of his affection was found, he would contentedly drift off to sleep. Most important: if Blankie somehow fell out of the crib, we always knew to go into Little Husband's room and retrieve it for him.<br /><br />Side bar: LH is not stupid. Once he realized the cause-and-effect of this action, he began "dropping" Blankie on the floor all the time. We're not stupid either: we quit going in to retrieve Blankie for him, and after a few Blankie-less nights, he quick accidentally-on-purpose dropping it.<br /><br />My point of all this is to say that I love our video monitor. I cannot live without it. I think that most people don't buy one because of their sky-high price (quality ones go for upwards of $180). Considering what people spend on baby clothing that they only get a few months' worth of use out of, the video monitor is a bargain since you can use it for <span style="font-style:italic;">years</span>. <br /><br />One night, while helping me clean up after dining on our front deck, Husband, in all his masculine efficiency, decided to bring in the video monitor while simultaneously carrying a large pile of dishes. I looked over to see him pinching the video monitor between his thumb and index finger in such a way that his thumb was pressed firmly against the video screen. I didn't think anything of it until I picked up the monitor later and saw a thumb-shaped white spot on the video screen. <br /><br />"What the...", I asked myself, "What's <span style="font-style:italic;">this</span>?" I tuned to husband and showed him the monitor's screen.<br /><br />"Huh---I wonder what that is?" he replied.<br /><br />"I think it's a thumb print. In fact, I think it's <span style="font-style:italic;">your </span>thumb print!"<br /><br />As if to prove it, I took husband's thumb and put it up against the spot. "Yup--definitely your thumb print. I think you burned out the screen when you were carrying the monitor earlier!"<br /><br />What Husband didn't know is that I covertly held my thumb up against the white spot as well, to see if it could be mine. It could have, but since I'd caught Husband in the act of carrying the monitor in such a way that could cause the burnout, I decided to let the blame reside with him. He accepted it, no questions asked.<br /><br />I did a little research in the ensuing weeks and learned that you cannot buy a replacement monitor. You can buy a replacement camera, but not a replacement monitor. If we wanted another one, we'd have to fork over another $200.<br /><br />It really wasn't a big deal except that sometimes we couldn't see what Little Husband was doing in his crib because the burnout spot was in the way. Then one day the spot got a little bigger.<br /><br />"Husband! You've got to stop carrying the monitor with your thumb over the video screen! Look at this---the burnout spot is spreading and I know it's not me doing it!" I told Husband one evening.<br /><br />He looked at the monitor in dismay. "I swear I'm not doing it," he said, "perhaps it's the baby sitter."<br /><br />I wasn't convinced, but I had to admit that it was a possibility. I blew on the monitor and rubbed my fingers lightly over the burnout spot but that seemed to make no difference.<br /><br />Last week we went to the beach and brought the video monitor with us. A few days into our trip we noticed that the burnout spot was gone! "Holy cow!" I exclaimed! "How on earth did it fix itself?"<br /><br />Husband and I then commenced devising elaborate, scientific reasons why the monitor repaired itself.<br /><br />"It's got to be the humidity!" I declared. "It somehow caused the video screen to expand thus peeling the layers apart and correcting the problem!"<br /><br />"Perhaps it's the salt in the air. Salt is a great electrical conductor and once it corroded the internal components it actually served to increased the charge of the current thus fixing the screen!" was Husband's theory.<br /><br />We didn't spend much more time thinking about it, we were just glad that it was fixed.<br /><br />A week went by and our vacation ended and we made our way home. Husband dutifully hung the video camera in its place over the curtains in LH's nursery and aimed it at the crib. That night we resumed our ritual of turning on the monitor after putting him to bed.<br /><br />"Oh holy crap," I said "Look at that--the screen is burned out again!"<br /><br />Husband grabbed the monitor and peered at it. "How could that be?" he asked.<br /><br />"I have no idea! You must have pressed the screen with your thumb again!" I blamed.<br /><br />"No, I definitely did not--wait a minute! I know what that white spot is. That's the curtain rod!" Husband said. "It's slightly in the way of the camera lens, and it's so close that it appears as a white spot on the screen. That's what's been wrong all this time!"<br /><br />"What? Wait a minute---!" I grabbed the monitor and peered at it closely, Then I held it out and looked at it from a distance. Then I peered at it again closely. "Holy crap, you're right!" I told Husband. Then I collapsed in a chair and laughed until I couldn't breathe.<br /><br />"All these months you had me convinced that I'd broken the video monitor!" he said, which only caused me to laugh harder.<br /><br />Net result? Unless he is absolutely positively caught in the act, it will be approximately 10 years before I get to blame Husband for anything ever again.<br /><br />Of course, there's always Little Husband...Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-74995577544332945112010-05-14T10:15:00.000-07:002010-05-14T14:26:40.374-07:00A Lesson in Not Giving UpBack in my telecom days, I used to pass a billboard every morning on my way to work. On it was a picture of Abraham Lincoln with the words, "Failed, Failed, Failed, Succeeded". Then there is the famous sentence incorrectly attributed to Winston Churchill that goes something along the lines of, "Never, ever, ever give up." These phrases used to play over and over in my head in the wee hours of the morning as I--armed only with my laptop, a floral screwdriver and the will to beat a machine that is smarter than I will ever be--battled broken VoIP communication systems.<br /><br />Many times--particularly as the hour neared 3 am--I thought about giving up, however, I couldn't because I had a boss who believed that he could fix anything (and he could). I never saw that man quit or admit defeat over anything. He would calmly attack the problem from all angles until he found a solution. It was his influence that struck the words "I can't" from my vocabulary.<br /><br />Somewhere along the lines I forgot that lesson. Last night I learned it all over again.<br /><br />~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br /><br />"Helicopter Butt got away!" <br /><br />Languishing in a warm tub after a busy day, I opened one eye to see Husband standing in front of me, out of breath. He was holding up a leash that was attached to a dog collar that was decidedly <span style="font-style:italic;">not </span>attached to a dog.<br /><br />"He saw a deer and somehow managed to wriggle out of his collar. He ran off into the neighbor's yard."<br /><br />This was not good news. Our neighborhood was built in the 60's and 70's when yards were quite large and full of trees. Helicopter Butt would be hard to find.<br /><br />"Don't worry," I reassured Husband, "We don't call him 'Boomerang Dog' for nothing. He'll come back--he always does."<br /><br />Unconvinced, Husband grabbed his keys. "I'm going to go drive around and look for him."<br /><br />Sighing, I extracted myself from the tub, dried off and got dressed. Figuring that we'd find HB in no time, I put on a tank top, yoga pants and my fuzzy, white slippers. I then proceeded to post myself in the front yard and call Helicopter Butt's name.<br /><br />After a quick drive around the neighborhood Husband returned home and suggested that I drive around since HB is more likely to respond to me when called. By this time it was 11:40 pm. I drove for 20 minutes up and down the same streets calling his name. I offered treats and the opportunity for a walk, but nothing I said flushed HB from his hiding place. Exhausted, I resigned myself to the fact that the chances of Helicopter Butt returning home on his own were higher than us finding him at midnight in our heavily-wooded neighborhood. I decided that I would put his dog bed and water bowl under the portico and hope that he returned at some point in the night.<br /><br />Since he had slipped out of his collar, he did not have his dog tags. He is, however, micro-chipped so that gave me some degree of comfort. I mentally began drafting the "Lost Dog" posters I was going to put up around the neighborhood before going to bed that night. Not that I was going to get any sleep.<br /><br />As I was pulling up to our house, Husband flagged me down. "I can hear him! He's somewhere in the woods in one of our neighbor's yards and he's whimpering."<br /><br />This was not good. HB whimpers for one of two reasons: he's either hurt or he's cornered a rodent. I turned off the car and listened. Finally, <span style="font-style:italic;">finally </span>I heard him whimper again, briefly.<br /><br />Running up a winding driveway into pitch blackness, I called HB's name as I shone my flashlight all around the woods. I prayed that whomever's yard I was in would not come running out with a shotgun. None of the yards were fenced, rather, they--being built into the side of a very steep hill--were separated by retaining walls.<br /><br />Once again I stood still and listened. Finally Helicopter Butt whimpered again, and I realized that he was close by. Spotting a brief movement out of the corner of my eye, I shone my flashlight over into the neighboring yard and spotted just the top of his head peaking out of what appeared to be a hole. I somehow--fuzzy slippers and all--managed to scale a chest-high retaining wall and what I saw took my breath away: Helicopter Butt--my sweet, beloved, precious little dog--was drowning in a neighbor's pool.<br /><br />I don't remember running over and pulling him out of the pool, but I must have because the next thing I know I was putting his collar back on him and rushing him home. Husband met me at the end of the driveway.<br /><br />"You saved his life!" I told him, "If you hadn't heard him whimpering, we never would have been able to find him and he would have drown! He was barely able to keep his head above water when I found him and probably had been dog-paddling for the entire 30 minutes that we were out looking for him. That's why he was whimpering intermittently; he could only whimper when his head was far enough out of the water to do so!"<br /><br />Back home we swaddled HB in dry towels and hugged his shaking body. We marveled over and over about how lucky we were. I thanked Husband repeatedly for saving HB's life. Then we tucked all our dogs into bed and went to sleep.<br /><br />This morning, over coffee, I mused about what happened last night. How I almost gave up on looking for HB. How fortunate we were that Husband hadn't given up before he heard the whimpering. And how Helicopter Butt never gave up, not once, while waiting for us to rescue him from that pool. The alternate ending--the one that had me passively placing his dog bed in the portico while waiting for him to come home--is unthinkable.<br /><br />Never, ever, ever give up.Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-35905748242451279642010-04-05T12:25:00.000-07:002010-04-05T14:57:23.366-07:00When Being "That Parent" Pays OffRemember <a href="http://iamhousewife.blogspot.com/2008/07/i-have-just-become-that-parent.html">this blog post</a> from years past? Well, being the shining example of a mother-with-her-act-together, I have yet to continue my search for a preschool for Little Husband. Once upon a time I was proactive enough to get my fetus’ name on a preschool waiting list. Now my toddler is at the age where if I don’t get his name on the waiting list, I’m going to miss out on all the best preschools. I used to think that this sort of mentality was crazy, but now I get it. It’s not about the Ivy League or social standing or your child’s ability to read Moby Dick at age three; it’s about wanting your child to be immersed in an environment where the caretakers truly care about him. It’s those schools that seem to have the longest waiting lists, and the sooner you get your child’s name on that list, the more likely they are to get in.<br /><br />This brings me to last week when I finally made a call to a highly regarded preschool that is just mere miles from my house. The conversation went something like this:<br /><br />Me: "Hi. I'd like to speak with Mrs. X about touring your preschool."<br /><br />Snotty Secretary: (sounding put out) "Uh Miss? You REALLY need to make that appointment with Mrs. Y."<br /><br />Me: "Oh, I'm sorry, your website said to make the appointment with Mrs. X, but if it's Mrs. Y I need, then that's fine too."<br /><br />Snotty Secretary: (sounding completely put out). "That's okay. Let me see when we can get you in...we're very busy and it won't be for quite a while." <br /><br />Me: "Okay..." <br /><br />(I hear papers shuffling in the background)<br /><br />Snotty Secretary: "Mrs. Y can see you tomorrow morning at 9:30."<br /><br />I arrive at the school and am immediately struck by the fact that I can walk right into the building. I wander the halls in my search for the school office, and no one stops me to ask me what I’m doing. This is disconcerting on many levels, one of them being that my son loves nothing more than to high-tail it out of an unlocked exit. In fact, as I’m typing this he’s opening a back door to the pool area (shudder!). Thankfully we have a child safety gate erected around the pool.<br /><br />I make my way over to a friendly looking teacher and ask for directions to the office. I notice her glance up at my hair but her expression remains unchanged as she tells me where I need to go. Once in the office I find myself face-to-face with Snotty Secretary and she is everything I thought she would be: 50-something, dowdy, overweight. It was clear that she held some sort of power in that school and it was clear that her modicum of power had gone to her head. She glanced up at my hair as she asked if she could help me.<br /><br />“Yes, I’m Femme and—“<br /><br />“You have a 9:30 appointment with Mrs. Y,” she interrupted briskly. It was clear that she was very proud of her efficiency, not matter how rude it made her. “She’s right in there.” She pointed to a nearby office.<br /><br />I walked into the office and was greeted by Mrs. Y, who was very friendly and professional. I felt myself begin to relax.<br /><br />“Let me tell you a little about our school and then we can go on the tour,” she began as she glanced up at my hair. I had a fleeting thought: Why was everybody glancing up in my hair?<br /><br />Mrs. Y continued speaking and I became absorbed in the conversation. At one point I ran my fingers through my hair only to find a rather large object stuck to my bangs. My hand came away holding a leaf. A big, ratty, dried-up oak leaf!<br /><br />Mrs. Y never missed a beat as I held the leaf up to the light and stared at it in amazement. Realizing that I’d been walking around the school with this fetching “leaf-hat”, I let out a rueful laugh and asked, “Has this been in my hair all along?” Mrs. Y ignored the question and continued talking about the school. No longer possessing the ability to concentrate on the conversation at hand, I again interrupted to discuss the leaf. <br /><br />“How on earth did you concentrate on our conversation while staring at this big leaf in my hair?!?” I asked, laughing and shaking the leaf in the air to emphasize my point. <br /><br />Ever the professional, Mrs. Y again pretended like we weren’t having this separate conversation and continued talking about the preschool. For some reason this annoyed me, and I can’t articulate why. Perhaps it was because there was an opportunity to switch off formalities and actually bond with each other and she didn’t take it. I mulled it over as we walked around the school and finally it struck me: for all of its merits (and there were many), this school had no heart. I want my son to go to a school where people can let go of pretenses, relax and just be themselves. Where teachers are light-hearted and generously dole out smiles and hugs. I want to visit the school and feel like I’m genuinely welcome there. Little Husband’s got plenty of time in his adult life to be exposed to corporate drones, he doesn’t need it at age three.<br /><br />I left the school with an application in my hand and a heavy heart. Mrs. Y all but guaranteed that if I got Little Husband on the waiting list soon he would be admitted. Knowing that time was of the essence, I continued to drag my feet about returning the application.<br /><br />Then today happened.<br /><br />Today I received a call from The School, the one I applied to when Little Husband wan in utero. The caller, Christy, was happy and chirpy as she informed me that they have a spot for Little Husband this fall. My baby—who won’t even be two years old—starts preschool in the fall. I feel like I’ve won the lottery.<br /><br />I toured the school last January with my mother-in-law and it was so wonderful that I actually became a little emotional when we left. Just like I knew when I first laid eyes on Husband that he was the one for me, I knew this school would be a good thing for Little Husband. I feel ridiculously grateful that he was granted admission--I can’t imagine how I’m going to be when college rolls around!Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-23227082057989778382010-02-22T07:59:00.001-08:002010-02-22T09:44:36.735-08:00Small, World, Small People, Big AspirationsIt's been a long while since my last post where I reported on Little Husband falling off the couch. While we've had many, MANY bumps and bruises since then, none have been quite as scary. It was all in the way that he was crying that day...it was just...eerie.<br /><br />Moving on, he is walking about 95% of the time and currently sports at least nine bruises (total) on his shins, a permanent knot in the middle of his forehead and traces of a black eye. Needless to say, I am afraid to take him out in public for fear that someone will report me to Child Protective Services.<br /><br />It's not my fault. No matter what I do, where I stand, or how many precautions I take, the kid finds a way to get hurt. The other day I was standing in the kitchen cooking and he was tumbling around at my feet, playing in the kitchen cabinets and drawers. (Side note: We have 31 kitchen drawers, so needless to say we do not put locks on all of them. We only lock those that contain something dangerous.) Anyway, I glance down at LH just in time to see him open a drawer, slip and bump his head on the corner of it, then ping-pong into another open drawer and bump his head on the corner of that one. Of course there was much wailing and shed tears for the next few minutes. Oh, and two more bruises on his face. <br /><br />I was taking a video of him that same day and accidentally captured this (the latest bruise occurs at the end of the video):<br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyaoHQkidjkSZDCyVQWwtvfwdZDUu72sUNXUns4q9vigwiczBR2xDdlOYRAIJTIKvMo5wqyafLviVP1Medl' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br />I'm glad I have it because if anyone calls the authorities on me, I now have proof that we do *not* beat him.<br /><br />A few days ago Husband had the ladder out because he was trying to get LH's Valentine's Day balloon down from the ceiling in our living room. Literally <span style="font-style: italic;">two seconds</span> after Husband retrieved the balloon and climbed down from the ladder we turned to see this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI91Fo3_pBGJ4abrm3ICMF2O5FRuGNKn39SyIzTeMUDmMssMEG8uo3745U96rbVbJj1ROqyiL1di1auuIK16tcepUpCB2INfB3AJWOgjGo-HvUmtIDHfL8QmNPX8KI8SJHmn5lE3jZspT1/s1600-h/Climbing+the+Ladder+Cropped.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 215px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI91Fo3_pBGJ4abrm3ICMF2O5FRuGNKn39SyIzTeMUDmMssMEG8uo3745U96rbVbJj1ROqyiL1di1auuIK16tcepUpCB2INfB3AJWOgjGo-HvUmtIDHfL8QmNPX8KI8SJHmn5lE3jZspT1/s400/Climbing+the+Ladder+Cropped.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441108586096139826" border="0"></a><br /><br />I know, I know--why am I stopping to take a picture of my 15-month-old son on a ladder rather than running over to rescue him? The truth is, as soon as we saw what Little Husband was up to Husband raced over to grab him. I edited him out of the picture, but he is right behind LH. <br /><br />In other news, I was at Gymboree with LH the other day and started chatting with a mother I'd never seen there before. As always, we traded info on our babies ages and discovered that our kids were born on the same day and in the same hospital. Further conversation revealed that she was in the delivery room right next to mine. I remember her clearly because we had the same nurse. I remember not seeing my nurse for four hours because, as it turned out, she was attending to this woman's emergency c-section. I've always worried about her in the back of my mind and am so glad to know that she and her baby did just fine.<br /><br />Finally, yesterday Husband and I decided to go check out open houses. We both love real estate and enjoy seeing remodels, infills and new homes. When we attend open houses we try not to engage the attending realtor as we do not want to get their hopes up or waste their time. We visited one such home yesterday with a realtor whose eyes lit up when she saw us walk in. I guess we met the profile of a potential buyer for that home. She chatted us up while and we did nothing to squelch her perception that we were in the market for a new home. She watched as we looked around the main level and apparently watched us out the window while we looked around the yard. I know this because she said, "did you figure out a way to fence in the grass?" which is exactly what we were doing when we were out there.<br /><br />The reason we went to see this particular house was because we looked at it one year ago when we were serious buyers and were surprised to see that it is still on the market--it was a very cute house! We went there to analyze it and figure out why. Yes, we have no life. <br /><br />Anyway, as we were leaving the realtor asked us to sign her guest book. Damn--I hate giving information about myself when I'm fake-shopping for a house. I looked at Husband but he was holding Little Husband so he got a pass. It was up to me to sign the blasted guest book. I walked over and---just as I wrote in a fake name--the realtor declared to Husband, "I know where I know you! You're (insert husband's full name here) and served on the board of such-and-such charity!" "That's right!" smiled Husband, his halo glowing. Damn again. What to do? It wasn't like I could exactly scratch out my fake name and write in my real one, so I decided to run with it and write in a fake address as well. Just as I commenced doing so, I heard Husband tell the realtor the name of the street that we live on. Great. Now she's going to thing that my saint of a husband is married to a fake and a liar. Wanting nothing more than to just get out of there, I decided to go for broke and--once I finished with the guest book--interrupted the conversation with an abrupt, "Okay, let's go." Startled, Husband said his goodbyes and followed me out the door.<br /><br />I truly didn't mean to be rude, I just wanted to get out of there before she uncovered any more of my wicked lies.Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-58926450713185897382009-11-03T12:41:00.001-08:002009-11-03T13:07:03.226-08:00Today the inevitable happened: Little Husband rolled off the couch and fell on his head (don't worry, he's okay).<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style:italic;">split second</span> 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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />And that's not an option.Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-75563441795524738432009-10-27T10:30:00.000-07:002009-10-27T10:38:48.579-07:00Cranradish-Salsa JellyIn keeping with my Mother of the Year status, today, while making Little Husband a jelly sandwich, I first grabbed this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYEiFtmzvQTSnwEm0pACMuSpWKWEgBb3pJuv4W1e4a3VwQfu01xUwiC5Ea7CbGmOdA9bx5o7qRTJqEW5X7z6xpE7TbPSMPqqH5lqZfvrcQ6XMNAv4IfDGdy7XrwYuW0o-MRPVhxPLEMrNb/s1600-h/IMG00661.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYEiFtmzvQTSnwEm0pACMuSpWKWEgBb3pJuv4W1e4a3VwQfu01xUwiC5Ea7CbGmOdA9bx5o7qRTJqEW5X7z6xpE7TbPSMPqqH5lqZfvrcQ6XMNAv4IfDGdy7XrwYuW0o-MRPVhxPLEMrNb/s400/IMG00661.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397334869435211282" /></a><br /><br />Then, shaking my head at my absentmindedness, I grabbed this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi15MOt8nFKFyV2wtOkABnRTI2XTdsBY5LEfz-lyPILVSe0AA4K7Vfgt3N9kxiUC2EBkVKEDewkoXCtHNZT69ZTLxtHn47Jk1nA9vDcagy3RfrgL__BCoI1V8sUFmJN-9DlUnl3wd1rvU5t/s1600-h/Salsa.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi15MOt8nFKFyV2wtOkABnRTI2XTdsBY5LEfz-lyPILVSe0AA4K7Vfgt3N9kxiUC2EBkVKEDewkoXCtHNZT69ZTLxtHn47Jk1nA9vDcagy3RfrgL__BCoI1V8sUFmJN-9DlUnl3wd1rvU5t/s400/Salsa.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397335016817570354" /></a><br /><br />I meant to grab this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdlg3Hmp12KZw9P7whNStUV37autVmqo43ZHVls3EQjnpPMPgwlSCd8mo3YnBRv-sw8LdQ7s5EJjoSukiK5aR7JN8Bz-dnc2OBFyF6ESJZPhGmOaeA_FsCsya-bRwpN-lIkviecJ1Rpuoh/s1600-h/Jelly.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdlg3Hmp12KZw9P7whNStUV37autVmqo43ZHVls3EQjnpPMPgwlSCd8mo3YnBRv-sw8LdQ7s5EJjoSukiK5aR7JN8Bz-dnc2OBFyF6ESJZPhGmOaeA_FsCsya-bRwpN-lIkviecJ1Rpuoh/s400/Jelly.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397334568567523186" /></a><br /><br />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!Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-17570850761168117082009-10-26T08:00:00.001-07:002009-10-26T08:20:42.052-07:00Is 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.<br /><br />I get a daily email from Groupon that details the deal offered that day. Here was today's deal:<br /><br />"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)." <br /> <br />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!Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-64185852562114445312009-10-19T13:54:00.000-07:002009-10-19T20:01:22.185-07:00Still Got ItLast 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.<br /><br />Oh yes, I'm back.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8fKaaTlH1rEGpDxcCXLNBy0UxPJUhyphenhyphenRW4XbCbA3g_0gzarDpHQHViNZWMBv-wKyd7RE8zdY6OfuteMTRNa1actzuNPbtS0MJbYnuRuHyEEdSwJuJf0TtMueuqr4a8pv4lbmRrcMuh9J0A/s1600-h/Scared.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 293px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8fKaaTlH1rEGpDxcCXLNBy0UxPJUhyphenhyphenRW4XbCbA3g_0gzarDpHQHViNZWMBv-wKyd7RE8zdY6OfuteMTRNa1actzuNPbtS0MJbYnuRuHyEEdSwJuJf0TtMueuqr4a8pv4lbmRrcMuh9J0A/s400/Scared.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394422700408096226" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDBTnOduBv81YJuWz5ZSC-VrYCVcCOJ89vZMIwBbXDdENKQCnP9o4ueFjDewFoxE_8p4PlkBBt4nwDJxbhS73rwyu0TAfm9DD9xRaft-WA34ukbenD-TqK3zXKOCmigAZ1FBphCCUG_8it/s1600-h/Witch.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 293px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDBTnOduBv81YJuWz5ZSC-VrYCVcCOJ89vZMIwBbXDdENKQCnP9o4ueFjDewFoxE_8p4PlkBBt4nwDJxbhS73rwyu0TAfm9DD9xRaft-WA34ukbenD-TqK3zXKOCmigAZ1FBphCCUG_8it/s400/Witch.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394426525598021666" /></a>Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-74385963352356024792009-09-22T14:10:00.000-07:002009-09-22T14:16:08.446-07:00Finish this blog post"Last night our new bed shook like the world was coming to an end. It wasn't."<br /><br />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...Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-19094602212591411802009-09-17T13:17:00.001-07:002009-09-17T13:21:47.848-07:00Losing ItI accidentally wore these to the dog park today:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDow66NR8OY01S8TrcUbXr7OHlSVtEHJKfZSPmlKfW5_OyR_FPmvLcqCkAzosZ23eF6l9lEWXwHhye2tg1Ck8XcDp11BGYLZ47f6u6di1-nW7GtuVvwSFxdzRX5JaY9-dfzjPav2quQ452/s1600-h/Fuzzy+Slippers.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 308px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDow66NR8OY01S8TrcUbXr7OHlSVtEHJKfZSPmlKfW5_OyR_FPmvLcqCkAzosZ23eF6l9lEWXwHhye2tg1Ck8XcDp11BGYLZ47f6u6di1-nW7GtuVvwSFxdzRX5JaY9-dfzjPav2quQ452/s400/Fuzzy+Slippers.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382533325872753986" /></a><br /><br />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. <br /><br />They're hot because they're encased in big, white fuzzy slippers!Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-31763027800713111812009-09-09T06:41:00.000-07:002009-09-09T08:23:47.146-07:00More 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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. <br /><br />Kind of like how I felt throughout my pregnancy.<br /><br />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.Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-31656102994594337282009-09-08T09:03:00.001-07:002009-09-08T09:20:29.535-07:00Growing UpThis morning was a series of "firsts" for Little Husband. This was a bright spot on an otherwise groggy morning as I was kept awake until 2 am by a certain snoring/kicking someone who will remain nameless.<br /><br />The first "first" was that Little Husband pushed himself up into a sitting position all by himself. He's probably a little behind on this baby benchmark but hey, it's hard to do push-ups when you're recovering from open-heart surgery.<br /><br />The second "first" was this (you might want to lower your volume as my high-pitched squeals are annoying even to me):<br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxHqCfAW0AEyqEWyZwk9QZvYSCb-PVKjcbuVhBO4xNxwg0iC5Bhk0SvwxAXbsCv-SwLr9si-qzbNLvzHdxlNg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br />The third "first" are his two lower teeth that are starting to come in (for sure this time). My gummy-smile baby is growing up, sob! I need to get some professional baby photos ASAP!<br /><br />The last--and saddest--"first" I will blog about in another post.<br /><br />Hmmm...perhaps it's time to rethink that second baby I've been so against.Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-63427710636358126152009-09-06T07:35:00.001-07:002009-09-06T07:47:32.917-07:00I Didn't Notice the Microphone When I Bought ItDespite all the fun that Husband and I have been having with this new toy--imitating a McDonald's drive-through worker, pretending like we're rap stars--something tells me that I am going to regret this purchase...<br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dx7RawjUpxkmBq3CDLajplOlNDDdRcuUsuPgtTLHie7pO6VhwD4n0GpBBA55vjdGy-jEVuGsGLFpekUefpxKg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-18490162612815239792009-09-01T15:29:00.000-07:002009-09-01T15:32:50.639-07:00A Tragic DayAlthough Little Husband repeatedly proves otherwise, I repeatedly refuse to believe that he has outgrown his exersaucer. Here, however, is the irrefutable evidence:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqtqabM3TcsTDAzlT0VyuUpmy0DhicPdBAAih62CI-q58GhsMv_22gPwLdD-WCpPNBNg3WatAnepwNe4vqgFMXSIK5MnteeL3MASpr39p3OBN98p4U-8qwPpBVZicXhC2prpYqnsxLNzPh/s1600-h/Growing+out+of+his+Exersaucer.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqtqabM3TcsTDAzlT0VyuUpmy0DhicPdBAAih62CI-q58GhsMv_22gPwLdD-WCpPNBNg3WatAnepwNe4vqgFMXSIK5MnteeL3MASpr39p3OBN98p4U-8qwPpBVZicXhC2prpYqnsxLNzPh/s400/Growing+out+of+his+Exersaucer.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376630476548374514" /></a><br /><br />Today I found him in this state three times before I gave up and set him elsewhere. Whatever will I do when I need to get things done?Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-12497858012672559532009-08-27T07:10:00.001-07:002009-08-27T08:06:54.991-07:00HappeningsI can't remember the last time I sat down to post anything to my blog, so much has been going on. For instance, we moved. We now have a guest room and an office. We also have this: <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3KXjpA9yqJEtLOfzDrNf7wyaHY0DM_xQvMWaTMAr4s3uTSWrA3BtTlCNSSDfbxjy3Cxge605d2WrdMgbQ1I8ElfFDr14u0oLQXKkF5GvHMB6esajUjA8LgOvm1352P52HRF5xuO7gi5Pr/s1600-h/Pool.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3KXjpA9yqJEtLOfzDrNf7wyaHY0DM_xQvMWaTMAr4s3uTSWrA3BtTlCNSSDfbxjy3Cxge605d2WrdMgbQ1I8ElfFDr14u0oLQXKkF5GvHMB6esajUjA8LgOvm1352P52HRF5xuO7gi5Pr/s400/Pool.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374646685777459986" /></a><br /><br />The pool truly would be heaven if I ever actually got to <span style="font-style:italic;">use </span>it, however, I never get to use the pool because there seems always to be some sort of contractor lurking about the premise. Just yesterday the fence guys finished installing the fence but I still can't use the pool because Creepy Pool Guy is coming at some point today to clean the pool and add chemicals. You might have figured this out, but I'm not a big fan of Creepy Pool Guy. When he comes to our house to clean the pool he looks in the back windows to see if I'm home. He only does this when he needs to talk to me, which happens to be every week. In my opinion, he should be walking his butt around the house to the front door and knocking like the rest of the civilized population. He's doesn't know it yet, but he's about to be fired and not for his Peeping Tom tendencies. He's about to be fired because he's a belligerent SOB with an attitude problem. Besides, I found another company whose pool guy isn't quite so creepy.<br /><br />In the picture above you can see that our new home has a great many windows. The side of the house with three levels of windows is actually our living room (tall ceilings). Once per week I hear a loud, startling thud which means that another bird has flown into an upper window. Up until two days ago, there had been no fatalities nor even any casualties, however, that changed for one poor birdie on Tuesday. At that time I sent Husband a text message that went something like this:<br /><br />"I am so glad that I am not the man of the house."<br /><br />The poor bird flew into the window, then hopped around our pool deck in a state of shock. Not knowing what to do and unwilling to touch a filthy bird, I watched helplessly from my bedroom window (it seemed asinine to call animal control over something like this. I need to reserve those calls for the snake that lives under our front deck). After a while, the bird curled up under a window as if it were taking a nap. "Oh good," I thought, "It's going to live!" Right then the bird shuddered and died. Something started leaking out of it's mouth. I shut the blinds and sent Husband the text alerting him to his after work clean-up duty. "That's men's work!" I declared in my text. Husband did not disagree.<br /><br />Ten days after our move we went to see my family in VA. Little Husband did very well on the three-hour plane ride. He kept his fussing to a minimum and enjoyed playing peek-a-boo with our fellow passengers. I tried the old "nursing upon takeoff and landing" trick to keep his ears from popping, but every time I pulled the nursing cover over his head, Little Husband would flail and punch mightily at it with his fists until the cover was rendered useless. What was most humorous was watching Husband flailing about, trying to keep me and The Whirling Dervish covered up. I guess men are protective like that.<br /><br />Little Husband loved his time with my parents and his aunts and uncles. He truly loves them and it was such a pleasure to witness. He treated my mother as an extension of me, and he loved, loved, LOVED being teased by his "Grandaddy". So cute. He also got to spend a great deal of time with one of his aunts and there was much loving and teasing there as well. That baby sure does love to be teased!<br /><br />In other news, Little Husband's paternal grandmother just bough him this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI99Kk7A3DJUos-Sh5vEeSkvK-p6KE0piHCHDWCEgST90tjmM2IkOdrQY4iAyDr8sGIj09-OSgEb2qRgcUtXTCYT-Ol308NeP6AdA2mwUXXrARGFJ1-2mSbnt8thRbWBPErEsnBepKg_em/s1600-h/Svan+Highchair.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 81px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI99Kk7A3DJUos-Sh5vEeSkvK-p6KE0piHCHDWCEgST90tjmM2IkOdrQY4iAyDr8sGIj09-OSgEb2qRgcUtXTCYT-Ol308NeP6AdA2mwUXXrARGFJ1-2mSbnt8thRbWBPErEsnBepKg_em/s400/Svan+Highchair.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374655637120463090" /></a><br /><br />I know it's ugly, but in a cool sort of way AND it's going to have a stylin' red cushion. I love me some red!<br /><br />That's it for my news. Not much to report except every time I visit my old 'hood I see Santa sitting aimlessly at one of the bus stops that line my old street. He never fails to holler "Hey Mama!" at me and wish me well. I miss my quirky old neighbors. The people in our new neighborhood are friendly, but I don't have my normal gaggle of eccentric personalities to monitor. That needs to change, and I am going to make it my current mission to figure out how!Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-30158150810823769292009-07-20T06:58:00.000-07:002009-07-20T09:42:20.408-07:00DistractedWith so much to do between closing on our new house and selling our current one, I find myself quite distracted with mental lists of everything I need to accomplish. This was illustrated perfectly this morning as I stepped out of the shower and grabbed my face toner. I poured it onto a cotton pad and began to vigorously wipe it all over my face. A split-second later the smell hit me: instead of grabbing my toner, I'd grabbed my nail polish remover. Naturally it was the super industrial strength salon-grade one that lists acetone as its first ingredient. Now that the burning has subsided I can objectively say that my skin looks great! My oil glands don't know what hit them!Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-61243978210137890862009-07-15T09:32:00.000-07:002009-07-15T10:25:05.856-07:00Homemaker of the YearLet me start with this: Husband loves, just LOVES to read the newspaper from cover-to-cover in the morning, especially on Sundays, especially the Sports section. On Sundays he'll tuck away into our sun porch where he sips coffee and reads the entire local Austin paper and the Wall Street Journal. I know better than to mess with Husband's paper before he reads it. Even the dogs tiptoe reverently around Husband's paper. Nobody messes with Husband's paper.<br /><br />Last Sunday I was in a frenzy trying to get our home ready to go on the market. We are going to close on a new house in a few weeks and will need to sell this one quickly which means that it must be immaculate. Feeling a burst of energy in 100+ degree weather, I grabbed the ladder and a squeegee and started vigorously washing the exterior windows. One window had a stubborn film that would not wash away no matter how many times I wiped it down with a sponge, so I got creative and went inside to grab some newspaper figuring that the newspaper ink might do the trick. The first paper I saw was the Sunday paper and I paused as I considered grabbing one of the sections but, since it was late afternoon, I figured that Husband had already read it. With this logic in place, I randomly grabbed the front page of a section and polluted it with window film and cleaning solution until it was in tatters.<br /><br />Sidebar: late afternoon is *the* hottest time of day in Texas. What was I thinking washing the windows at this time? This is the time when all Texans become as soft as tea cakes and lounge around until dusk sets in and the air begins to cool off. No Texan in their right mind performs hard labor at this time of day.<br /><br />That evening after a long, hard day of hauling our extraneous "stuff" to a storage unit, Husband collapsed on the couch as I began preparing dinner. I heard the newspaper rattling and didn't think much of it until Husband asked, "Honey--what happened to the front page of the Sports section?" I glanced up to see that indeed the front page was missing from the precious sports section. My mind flashed to the tattered paper in the trash can. "D-didn't you read it this morning?" I asked, buying time as my mind raced. "No," Husband replied. "The paper came late and I had to get all this work done around the house while the store were open so I didn't have time to read it." "Oh, well I um...(mumble mumble) washed the windows (mumble mumble) kind of ruined..."<br /><br />Husband just gave me "that look" as he tried his best not to be mad at me. He succeeded. He's a sweet man, just don't ever tell him so.<br /><br />----------------<br /><br />Later that same night as I continued to straighten the house...<br /><br />"Husband, did you clean the Exersaucer?" I asked in delight. First of all, I never in my life thought I'd utter a sentence like that with such emotion, but there I was doing just that. Like probably all mothers, I have a love/hate relationship with the Exersaucer. I love how much Little Husband loves it. I love how cute and happy he is when he plays in it. I love how he hollers at and beats up and tries to eat the toys. That's where the loving stops.<br /><br />I hate how big and garish it is. I hate how it takes effort to get Little Husband <a href="http://iamhousewife.blogspot.com/2009/07/mother-of-year.html">seated comfortably</a> in it. I hate how that it has one million nooks and crevices that render it impossible to clean. This is significant because whenever LH is in The Big E, as I have now dubbed it, he spits up multiple times. My theory is that as he stands up and whirls around in the spinny-seat, he keeps bumping his tummy against the frame thus purging his most recent food intake. It's gross, my friends, I know, but that's motherhood.<br /><br />Anyway, Husband looks up from the paper and admits, "I didn't clean the Exersaucer."<br /><br />"You didn't?" I asked, confused, "That's so strange. It was practically coated in spit-up and now it looks like it's been through a car wash."<br /><br />Husband thought for a minute. "You know, I did see Le Pooch Grande lurking around it earlier today..."<br /><br />Dumbstruck, we looked at each other as the realization set in.<br /><br />---------------<br /><br />In other news, Little Husband and I were snuggling in bed this morning--as we do most mornings--while he nursed. I guess I dozed off because all I know is that I was in the middle of a dream where I was hugging Husband tight and the next thing I know, I woke up to Little Husband pushing me off of him as if to say, “Mom—get <span style="font-style:italic;">offa </span>me! Stop hugging me so tight!”<br /><br />(Sigh!) I felt an apron string cut already...Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-71116490009956440212009-07-10T13:01:00.000-07:002009-07-10T13:12:35.104-07:00Mother of the YearThis afternoon while I fixed a turkey sandwich, I plunked Little Husband down in his exersaucer where he merrily played, spinning and bouncing all around for 20 minutes. Then I noticed this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiIWuu6Ehd8kCMT02KrJFQ9qD0qhEsTpj4kqj127Fu-OWZ6qBoHwnWNXb4oNVi_GqWrs3ts5gaCmCnLQlylw-R0BagfuX6o05IDiGcHnrj2xer-Snc9AiicqzGt7cNY7HwZUBTz4ZW72mH/s1600-h/One+Legged+Bounceroo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiIWuu6Ehd8kCMT02KrJFQ9qD0qhEsTpj4kqj127Fu-OWZ6qBoHwnWNXb4oNVi_GqWrs3ts5gaCmCnLQlylw-R0BagfuX6o05IDiGcHnrj2xer-Snc9AiicqzGt7cNY7HwZUBTz4ZW72mH/s400/One+Legged+Bounceroo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356925267675758082" /></a><br /><br />From a different angle:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimHcRP6p02c9-iH1jT1PLcAh-Lqlgl3V6W5gCzmM7f5PFtk2TShEmuWodeLp6ej2iit1gC0wr_2Sbi9llxtXMcdA8xdMjZNC4hzk9F1VThyVzzz_X_0bKXE7DhzP5RymkeuX7xlLMP3XCr/s1600-h/Bounceroo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimHcRP6p02c9-iH1jT1PLcAh-Lqlgl3V6W5gCzmM7f5PFtk2TShEmuWodeLp6ej2iit1gC0wr_2Sbi9llxtXMcdA8xdMjZNC4hzk9F1VThyVzzz_X_0bKXE7DhzP5RymkeuX7xlLMP3XCr/s400/Bounceroo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356925741528259602" /></a><br /><br />How it should look:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXRadeB1ibMQytkp6H2dcrsmvkpm0KzYmA6vx3AQWELSIEhX3AtFsZ1SuUgM23wK1HNVrZFUMnZawngeZ1cFYuBxNHNgU1_KZIxvvBkggn2nvg_gIp0JotEd16pN5-NhwPkG0sZ7o97t3q/s1600-h/Bounceroo+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXRadeB1ibMQytkp6H2dcrsmvkpm0KzYmA6vx3AQWELSIEhX3AtFsZ1SuUgM23wK1HNVrZFUMnZawngeZ1cFYuBxNHNgU1_KZIxvvBkggn2nvg_gIp0JotEd16pN5-NhwPkG0sZ7o97t3q/s400/Bounceroo+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356926403526021922" /></a><br /><br />It looks terribly uncomfortable to me (can you imagine bouncing around with your foot all twisty underneath you like that?!?) but Little Husband just laughed and giggled away as I snapped pictures of it. I guess he wasn't too bothered by it. I wish I could bend like that!Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-64120630598558647242009-07-09T12:04:00.000-07:002009-07-09T12:06:10.648-07:00Blog-RollSorry everyone I blog-rolled, but a friend's blog was compromised so I decided to play it safe and remove all links on this blog. It doesn't mean that I don't love reading your blog, it just means that I'm not going to link to anybody anymore.Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-40345961038998423962009-06-30T13:07:00.000-07:002009-06-30T13:13:42.505-07:00Celebration, Pain, and a Ride on a Private PlaneThis past weekend Little Husband took his first flight ever to visit a great aunt who was terminally ill. What's significant about this is that a family member had the means and felt it worthwhile to charter a private plane, so Little Husband's first plane ride ever was in serious style. Crazy. My first plane ride ever was when I was 18 and it definitely wasn't a chartered plane.<br /><br />This morning we awoke to some fabulous news--my little niece was born! I am so excited to meet her in August. Then we were met with some not-so-fabulous news...Little Husband's great aunt passed away. What's interesting is that the time of death and the time of birth appear to have been at exact the same time, give or take a minute. No kidding, no exaggeration. The two are from completely separate families so it's not as if someone can claim 'reincarnation' or anything, but still it's interesting. <br /><br />Oh, and it's Little Husband's grandmother's birthday as well. Happy birthday, Nana!Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-11841768499183307052009-06-26T11:01:00.000-07:002009-06-26T11:18:19.162-07:00A Baby Called "Head"When Husband was in high school he was one of those guys that stood 5'11" and weighed 135 lbs---a true bean pole. Unfortunately, his head didn't get the message about staying in proportion with his body so it grew and grew and grew. This was the 70's so his big 'fro of curly hair didn't exactly help matters. From what Husband tells me, he looked like a lollipop. As we all know, kids can be cruel and the kids at his school--where Husband was a minority--were no exception. In order to keep from getting his a$$ kicked on a daily basis, Husband took up basketball and became friends with all the guys on the team. A wise move. Still, that didn't prevent his new found "friends" from teasing him and one day, as he was walking down the hall, he heard one of his teammates call out, "Hey--that's the dude they call 'Head'". <br /><br />The guy was talking about Husband.<br /><br />Fast forward to June 26th, 2009 where I am sitting at my laptop furiously inputting Little Husband's measurements (taken today) into a Baby Growth Percentile Calculator. Here's what it came back with:<br /><br />Height - 25th percentile<br />Weight - less than 5th percentile <br />Head - greater than 95th percentile<br /><br />Look familiar? <br /><br />We're installing a basketball hoop pronto!Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-433304282969630652.post-30586899854176942182009-06-26T10:48:00.001-07:002009-06-26T10:52:09.764-07:00Happenings...Here is what our little Brookstone weather monitor is telling us about the weather outside:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRbIQdgAEhlPoGw_bG1cvsVb5ZRz-68VdDh6K9ktgdWTmNV7uQp6KpFyAcICObT1V2cWzKwgFHtscm6pg0UgTMEa5eI-isdgmIiSBdfwkzUGPk1XuETE8D2lrQkI4YzdA4Hi-ISlKb35ZG/s1600-h/Weather.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRbIQdgAEhlPoGw_bG1cvsVb5ZRz-68VdDh6K9ktgdWTmNV7uQp6KpFyAcICObT1V2cWzKwgFHtscm6pg0UgTMEa5eI-isdgmIiSBdfwkzUGPk1XuETE8D2lrQkI4YzdA4Hi-ISlKb35ZG/s400/Weather.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351694723016823474" /></a><br /><br />Seriously, it's 89 degrees but "feels like 108"??? What on earth did Texans do before air conditioning came along?<br /><br />Yesterday, on my way to meet the girls for dinner I saw this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje83ZXDIjOKevZuvXu2l9QEkrqF2OzB2E9_vdKHSsb-_lRoSxF7fkdqBvoI7GI3-x1RQvgGvuZduKcwPt9odiF7L-NRzv5-KB8R1b_-9L3wDEoe_tKYgc52WUgWBRhMl80Hf7Rq5YxCMlE/s1600-h/Dog+on+Mirror.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 303px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje83ZXDIjOKevZuvXu2l9QEkrqF2OzB2E9_vdKHSsb-_lRoSxF7fkdqBvoI7GI3-x1RQvgGvuZduKcwPt9odiF7L-NRzv5-KB8R1b_-9L3wDEoe_tKYgc52WUgWBRhMl80Hf7Rq5YxCMlE/s400/Dog+on+Mirror.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351695295843891650" /></a><br /><br />Even though it was 107 yesterday, the dog seemed fine, happy even. It was kind of cute.Femme au Foyerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02017885493486784766noreply@blogger.com0