Sigh.

I’m sure you’ve seen, if you’re even a fraction of as much of a couch potato as I have been lately, the Gap commercial with Sarah Jessica Parker. The other day, McPantses watched in slack-jawed awe as SJP sang and danced about her teeth being pearls and enjoying being a girl.

When it was over, McP turned to me and said, in the most serious voice, “You know, mommy, I enjoy being a girl, too.”

Last night, I closed the door between Third’s room and the kitchen and knocked about twelve of McPantses’ dresses off the trim/molding around the top of the door. The dresses were all in need of ironing (every.single.thing she owns needs ironing, it seems, and because I’ve been home so much I have now worked my way through all laundry and am stuck at ironing for the time being). As I started picking things up off the floor, she stood there and looked at me and said, “Sometimes you have to clean up the messes that you make all on your own.”

Then she picked up her cup of water from the kitchen counter and left the room.

Thanks a lot, kid. I said, “Well, you’re a big help!”

(I have absolutely no idea where she learned that line, but I suspect it’s from a Bearenstain Bears book.)

I wasn’t prepared for it to be this good.

**waits patiently for lightening to strike**

McPantses has settled into her role as a big sister nicely. Third is snuggly and thriving. The four of us are having the best time together. Third is the perfect last member of our family. McPantses keeps asking when we’re having another baby, though. We just keep telling her NEVER NEVER NEVER and laughing evilly.

(Not really about the evile laughter. The rest is true, tho.)

I am getting peed on at least every three days. The Husband said, last night, as I dunked Third in the baptismal-like bath (kitchen sink), only to have him let loose a long pee all over the front of my shirt (the Husband is most impressed with the aim*), that he cannot believe that I, who has never EVER seen him use the bathroom EVER (thankfully and vice versa, in case you’re wondering–I have serious bathroom privacy issues) handle Third’s peeing and worse so well.

Dude, he’s breastfed. It’s not like he downed two fingers of Knob Creek and smoked a stogie **eyebrows to Husband here** and peed all over me. Milk in, urine out. No biggie.

Things are swell. Third has gained 42 ounces in 30 days. He left the hospital weighing 6 lbs, 11 oz, and was 9.5 yesterday at his one month checkup. He’s almost an inch longer and his head circumf. grew an inch and a half.

I’m quite pleased.

He still looks tiny to me, though.

We may attempt a zoo outing this week, if we can manage a nice, sunny afternoon. McPantses will love it and I can get some exercise.

* Why did the nurse at the one month checkup ask if Third’s urine stream is nice and strong? I assume she wanted to note that he’s peeing well, but she didn’t just ask that. They also asked how soon he was put to the breast after he was born. As his body temp was low, he was under the warming lamp for a while and I didn’t get him for over three hours (big disappointment after I got McP almost as soon as I got into recovery). Wonder why they asked?

Off to nap on the couch while snuggling a tiny warm boy.

“It’s Kevin Costner’s best film in years!”

The Husband: “That ain’t sayin’ much. Hey, it’s better than Waterworld!“

Dear Lord,

Please don’t let any member of my family fart (or worse) loudly during the prayers at church or during any other particularly quiet time.

Please.

Amen.

Thank you,
the mother of a breastfed baby who has explosively loud poops and of a 4 yr old who still finds farts hee-haw-high-larious. (Of course, the parents do, too, but…)

The Husband calls the boychild’s noisy expulsions “sharts.”

The good thing about sitting nervously with both kids in church (just Third and I went last Sunday–and YES, I had my three week old out already and bite my ass and praise the LAWD!) is knowing that every other parent of little kids in the place was thinking the same thing.

Husband, for:

1. calling about three minutes after I left that snarky phone message yesterday.

2. the very fun date last night. I told you the New Radicals song was a great driving song.

3. spelling me this a.m. (and yesterday and the day before) and letting me sleep late while you held Third.

4. bringing me a decaf mocha on your way back from grabbing some work at your office.

5. shopping happily for McPantses’ Easter basket contents again. I think it’s charming that you love to do this and take it upon yourself yearly. You did a good job, too.

6. heading to the grocery store for eggs to dye and sammich contents so I don’t have to go.

7. making sure I got a long nap this afternoon. I needed it.

8. letting me eat the rest of your melt-in-your-mouth-delicious steak from last night.

9. being the rational-minded member of the household who isn’t driven stark raving mad by McPantses’ insistence on wearing a leotard, ballet slippers and a tutu all day, every single day. I know it’s just a phase but it still bugs me for no good reason and she does love it.

10. agreeing to undertake megahousework before our friends arrive with their kids tomorrow after church to hunt Easter eggs.

11. corralling (one “l” or two? one “r” or two?) McPantses at the church Easter carnival today so I could stand around and hold the boychild in a dream state and talk to all my friends. It was swell. And hot. But swell.

12. listening with interest to the business proposal presented to me by my mother’s friend yesterday a.m. and reconsidering your initial “HAYALL NAW” stance. You’re a lot more reasonable than I am.

13. supporting my potentially changing to part time work in the nearish future. And for saying so nicely, “you know, I don’t want to be rude or anything, but we probably cannot afford for Third to go to daycare if you quit work.” I do know that, but I love you for saying it nicely.

14. for buying me a book out of the blue a couple of weeks ago. I’d rather have a book than almost anything.

15. for saying that I look great all the time and for very clearly ignoring the flab of gut that’s still present and for not noticing that I smell a lot like sour milk despite at least one shower a day (if not two or more).

You’re a peach and I’m lucky to have you.

If you are spending the afternoon playing golf with someone from your office while your wife, your newborn boychild and your incessantly talkative 4 yr old muddle through their first full day all home at the same time and you fail to answer your cell phone when your wife calls (finally) at 5 p.m. to find out what time you might be thinking about coming home, you are a pigfucker.

Your wife probably realizes that you have had a long month and that you have gotten all sorts of amazing work done in the face of a moderately sleep-deprived and whoremonal wife.

Your wife doesn’t begrudge you an afternoon of golf. Much.

Your wife is happy that you got to use the $800 set of brand new Taylor Made irons you won in the golf tournament from last week. Your wife didn’t begrudge you that work foursome either, even though you had to stay for dinner and the awards ceremony afterwards. Much.

But the least you can do is answer the doGdamned phone. Your wife shan’t dwell on the thousands of emergency possibilities because it will make her angry and hysterical if she does, but that’s mostly because she’s starving and the dog hair tumbleweeds are starting to get to her.

You can make up for this by taking your wife out to an impossibly expensive dinner tonight as your mother-in-law is coming over. Your wife is happy her mother is coming but ambivalent about leaving her new baby. However, your wife is planning a pump-and-dump after a drink, so there you have it.

Signed,
Mrs. Pigfucker,
who is waiting for her seared tuna with a wasabi-nuanced risotto.

Petty: last July, I got hosed on an ebay transaction. I have been extremely bitter over this $30 nonsense for many moons now. The horrid redneck who stiffed me on a pair of maternity pants was due with a baby at the exact same time as me, too.

I finally got a resolution in my favor from my credit card company after three encyclopedias of written and faxed and delivery confirmation mailed communication on my part (per their requests) and am so happy it’s over.

(Yep. I got this bitter and stressed out over a $30 ebay transaction gone wrong. Is it any wonder we call McPantses OCD Junior?)

I haven’t checked the ebay gutterwhore’s feedback the entire time I’ve been out on maternity leave.

I did tonight. I figured I’d risk the negative karma and all.

She’s still getting an interesting melange of dreadful feedback combined with mostly good stuff. Heh heh heh.

I would link her here, but she went utterly nutso on me after I filed complaints and sent about 15 emails in one day, so…

Foofy goodness ahead: a blog with art I love and a girl after my own heart… The beehive would send McPantses into squeals of joy and I love the little boy looking back.

When I am not hovering over the boychild and his sister, I will link many gawgeous paper sites. There are many to be linked. The style and panache makes me want to get the thank-yous I owe out asap.

(There are several dozen cards printed in three different styles. There are two fresh books of stamps. The address list has been completely revamped. The notes are just not written yet. Same with laundry, dog hair tumbleweed vacuuming and ironing. But there has been a lot of snuggling and a lot of reading of Junie B. Jones–that smart-mouth–to McPantses.)