The Move: Days Three and Four

Sunday: We spent a good chunk of the day arranging furniture, rugs, lamps, etc., all the while pleading, "Move, Grady -- I mean Brace." (If that little voice in your head ever tells you something is probably too heavy for you to pick up, listen to it.) We didn't have a refrigerator yet, since that little detail got lost in the flurry of paperwork, packing and procrastination, so we were subsisting entirely on food from a HUGE gift basket from our friend and realtor, Deborah. Who knew Jelly Bellies could give you such energy? They should be their own food group.

At some point our doorbell rang, and a neighbor from down the street was waiting on our front porch with his adorable little girl and A PLATE OF CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES. John and I must have looked like idiots, standing there with our mouths hanging open, so I explained that our first encounter with our old neighbors had to do with the weeds in our garden. That is why this is one of the happiest pictures I have ever taken:



Monday: Very first thing in the morning, I dashed out to my car to look for something and locked myself out of the house. With Grace inside. At this point I had met the neighbors on either side of us, and they had yet to see me in anything other than pajamas or a combination of pajamas and street clothes. The guy to the south let me use his phone to call a locksmith, and the guy to the north suggested that if I was going to make a habit of this, I might consider giving one of them a spare. I hadn't had any coffee and hadn't showered since Saturday morning, and Grace was inside wailing (a little melodramatically, I think), unable to get off the couch and OPEN THE DOOR FOR MOMMY, but I kept my cool. The locksmith was there in ten minutes, and I so wish I had taken his picture. He looked like a combination of Dennis Leary and Keith Richards, dressed all in black, with a silver chain on his pants and lots of silver rings. His tools looked nothing like those of other locksmiths who have come to my rescue, and I got the distinct impression he had decided burglary was just too risky these days and he might as well go straight and get paid for breaking into people's homes.

Later I went to buy a refrigerator, which I was dreading because the opening left by the builders would require a smaller than average fridge. But here I learned an important lesson: the fewer options you have, the easier it is to make a decision. I settled on one in less time than I've taken to pick out wine. Seconds after I got home, the truck pulled up and voilà! Isn't she pretty? Now we can have our Jelly Bellies chilled.

The Move: Days One and Two

Friday: We were lucky enough to get into our new house a day before we had to vacate the old one. I spent the ENTIRE DAY cleaning every nook and cranny (construction dust -- ick), fixing leaky plumbing (freakin' plumbers) and generally loving every minute of being alone in our brand new, empty, totally awesome soon-to-be home.

Saturday: The movers arrived right on time (it's Portland, after all) and did a fantastic job loading everything we had packed. Emphasis on everything we had packed. For some reason I will never understand, I decided to save the kitchen for last so we wouldn't have to worry about packing everything carefully enough to withstand professionals handling it. We thought it made more sense to bring dishes, glasses, pots and pans, etc. in our cars and try not to hit any bumps. It's the "etc." that did me in, though. Long story short, I had finished packing leftover odds and ends upstairs and was just about done vacuuming when our buyer's realtor showed up. I had not even started on the kitchen, so imagine my reaction when he told me the new owner would be there in five minutes and they were having a party half an hour later. He helped me move everything from the kitchen to the garage and told me it would be cool if I just worked out there. As far as I'm concerned, he earned his commission then and there. But OH. MY. GOD. We have a LOT of stuff in our kitchen, some things I couldn't even put a name to. And all I had to work with were two big plastic bins and packing paper. I looked at the mountain of crap in the garage, called John (who was supervising the unloading at the new house) and said some things I'm not proud of. He showed up as the new owner was arriving and smoothed things over with her, then we spent HOURS haphazardly packing a ridiculous assortment of kitchen gadgets that we have no business even owning.

To make matters worse, there was still food in the fridge and a load of laundry in the dryer, so I had to join the party a few times to bag the food, clean beet juice from a produce bin (which looked like blood and totally freaked out a few guests, I think), and check on my clothes. Here's the beauty part, though: everyone was so nice. One man heard me mutter something about how I could use a snort of Jameson, and the next thing I knew I had a whiskey in my hand that tasted like Jameson but is apparently made in Pendleton. When I ventured inside, the new owner and her friends chatted with me about the house and what a great job we'd done with it, among other things. And one woman alerted me that I'd missed a drawer of stuff in the bathroom -- my glasses, contacts, toothbrush and toothpaste -- stuff I'd actually miss really soon. We ended the night hugging Barbara, the new owner, and having our picture taken together.

Grace spent the day with Julian and his parents, Justine and Steve. They went to the park, napped together (Grace and Julian) and when I called Justine to let her know we were finished, Grace was sound asleep for the night. Her first sleep over -- with a boy.


How cute are they?

I did NOT see this coming.

When we left our old house on Schuyler, I knew it would be awful. It was our first house, and we forged lifelong friendships and created countless fun, sad, hilarious, beautiful memories during the eight years we lived there. Dutchie died there. A few months later, Brady made herself at home there. We lived there when Grace was born. That's what did it, actually. I got tired of picking ants out of her hair when I was nursing her (gross), and the mouse poo in her bedroom closet was the final straw. But that last day, when I was cleaning the empty rooms, I cried -- no, sobbed -- the entire time I was there. I drove by today, and the garden I planted in front was in full bloom and beautiful. I thought, That's MY garden.

I never expected a twinge of anything other than pure joy leaving this place. But last night I was going through mountains of Grace's baby clothes to bring to a clothing exchange, trying to limit myself to one box of really, you know, meaningful pieces to keep. And suddenly I was having a panic attack and feeling weepy. We never connected with this community, and we've made more enemies than friends. Still, this is where I last nursed Grace. This is where she finally began walking at fourteen months, as if she'd been doing it forever (below). I remember thinking, when we took our first walk outside, her little hand in mine, I could die happy right now. She started talking here (and may never stop). Lots happens in two years when your baby becomes a toddler and then a little girl. Grace won't remember this place, but there are some things I will try to remember for her. I'll tell her about the ducks, geese, blue heron and egrets that make the Columbia Slough their home. I'll remind her of our summer walks, stopping to pick dandelions, collect pine cones and smell every flower. I'll leave out how the police shot and killed a neighbor last year just because he was waving a rifle at them. And we will NEVER AGAIN SPEAK OF THE HOMEOWNERS' ASSOCIATION.

(No, I don't know why I sound like I'm from Minnesota.)

What mid-life crisis?

This is my late dog, Dutchie. I adopted her when I was a junior in college and loved her like crazy for fifteen years. The day we put her to sleep was, to date, the worst day of my life. I miss her.

I've been swimming in nostalgia lately, dreaming a lot about high school and college and the indignities of those awkward years. I've been thinking about the person I was and the person I expected to become, and trying to reconcile both with who I am now. I've been making some clumsy efforts to reconnect with people from my past, I suppose hoping to find some objectivity, a lens without any filters of cynicism or disappointment. I think the changes going on in my life right now are forcing me to look back in order to move forward. I'd like to think I'm on the right track, that I'm continuing my journey to be a better person. Maybe I'll know once I'm not stuck in neutral, spinning my wheels and waiting for my real life to start.

Not too great at picking my battles.

If you're anything like me (and I hope for your sake you're not), you'll see this picture and wonder, "Who put together that train wreck of an outfit?" I really expected Grace to be three, maybe four before she cared about what she wore, but we've been... negotiating about clothing for quite some time now. Today she was still in her jammies at nap time (NOT my call), but she'd gotten jam all over them at lunch and I had to change her, you know, so the ants wouldn't get her while she slept. I let her pick out her shorts, figuring she'd go next for her favorite orange t-shirt that's too big for her because she knows I think it's too big for her. But she wanted this one. I pretended to misunderstand her and pulled out a solid pink shirt, but she started wailing as if I were trying to pull a shirt of thorns over her head. So I said, "Grace, what difference does it make? You're going to be napping!" I wish I could say she looked me square in the eye and replied, "EXACTLY." But that little voice was in my own head. So I put this shirt on her, and I felt like we both understood what just happened as I put her in her crib.

If you're normal, you're perhaps wondering why she's climbing from couch to couch like a dog. And the obvious answer there is that this is how Brady does it. At least she's not barking.

You want me to what?

Grace's expression here captures perfectly how I feel about packing. Every time we move I swear it will be the last time, but I get bored quickly. Also, I knew when we moved into this house that I needn't unpack the barware, so at least that box is ready to go. It's not that we didn't like the neighborhood, it's just that we hated the neighborhood. Unfriendly, isolated and unique in its close proximity to both a correctional facility and a school for emotionally disturbed, violent adolescents. Oh, and the Air National Guard. I dig military pilots as much as the next middle-aged hausfrau, but their daily maneuvers rattle the house, and I'm not sure Brady can take much more stress. And then there's the homeowner's association and their rabid pursuit of perfection and homogeneity among the houses and yards. Basically it's everything Portland is NOT, which we probably should have figured out before we moved here. So although I don't like packing, and Grace will be no help whatsoever, I'll be whistling while I work.

And then there were two.

The two literary agents who requested partials of my novel have bowed out, which leaves two who are considering the full manuscript. I'm becoming less sensitive to rejection, but what kills me is when an agent chooses to forego the form letter in favor of a personalized note extolling all that is good about my writing, characters, story, etc. -- then informs me my project is "not right for them at this time". This "It's not you, it's me" explanation is frustrating, because what I really need is feedback on what might make the novel more appealing to them. I suspect it's the genre, which means I'm screwed unless I want to transport the story to 18th century Poland, or the planet Erusserp a hundred years in the future, because that's what sells. Stupid readers.

Be careful what you wish for. Seriously.

These are mushrooms growing where brick meets siding on the balcony off our bedroom. This shouldn't be surprising to anyone who lives in Portland, or who has read Ken Kesey's Sometimes a Great Notion. While some may find our aggressively verdant climate oppressive, I'd like to believe we're being embraced, rather than strangled, by our flora.

So... WE SOLD OUR HOUSE! We went about things kind of ass-backwards, and stumbled upon a new house we just had to have before ours was even on the market. So we did the whole contingency thing, fully expecting it to take months to sell our place, losing our dream home in the process. Alas, every now and then the stars align and karma smiles down on us. The first person to call made an offer before our "For Sale" sign was even up. The catch? She must be in here on the 26th of this month, leaving us two weeks to vacate. We'll go directly from one closing to another, hoping both lenders have their shit together and things so smoothly. So much for waiting on THAT front.

The new house is totally cool! More on that later. I hesitate to talk about it for fear of jinxing the deal. Keep your fingers crossed for us.

While the dog's away, the cat will play.

Brady has a crew of buddies she goes to the dog park with every Wednesday afternoon, courtesy of Jodi at See Spot Run, easily the best dog walker ever. We also have a neighborhood cat, Floyd, who is so friendly, I'm not sure he knows he has claws or teeth. So while Brady was attempting to sniff and pee on every square inch of Normandale Park today, we let Floyd in out of the nasty weather. He went EVERYWHERE in the house. He even tried to rub against Grace, but although she'll walk up to a hundred pound Rottweiler and giggle, she was afraid of Floyd. Eventually he grew bored with us and sat staring at the front door until I let him out. He sauntered off without so much as a meow or a tail twitch of appreciation, and I'll admit I was a little put out by his sense of entitlement. Anyway, try to picture Brady coming home and running all over the house, nose to the floor, no wait -- the couch, no wait -- MY WATER BOWL?!? I thought her head would explode.

Where did J. Po go?

One of my favorite people in the world was in town this weekend. Jon and his partner lived next door to our old house, and for a few blissful summers we both worked from home, meaning we usually ended up drinking wine on one of our patios by three o'clock. Then OUT OF NOWHERE Jon accepted a job in San Diego. He took me to a trendy restaurant to tell me he was leaving so I wouldn't make a scene. (Ella was long gone, and another couple down the street had recently split up and moved to new neighborhoods, so yes, I was beginning to think it had something to do with me.) I promised Jon I would stop using my key to their house for emergencies, like running out of wine or Diet Coke, but he insisted that wasn't it, and that NOT EVERYTHING WAS ABOUT ME. Please.

A few months after he left I was pregnant with Grace, so they've met only a couple of times. She fell in love with him this weekend, and quickly picked up his nickname, J. Po. Once he was gone, she kept asking, "Where'd J. Po go? Where's J. Po?" I took this opportunity to teach her an important life lesson: never get too attached to anyone, because eventually they will abandon you and break your heart into tiny little pieces.

I never stop learning from some teachers.

Sometimes when Brady is sleeping, she whimpers, growls, yelps or wags her tail. The tail wagging cracks me up, and I can't help but wonder what she's dreaming about. Chasing a squirrel? Nibbling on something rotten? Wait, I know — her perfect life before Grace was born.

I had a dream a while ago that I was graduating, not from school, but moving from one phase of my life to another. I was my current age, but the dream was set in my old high school (why not?). I went to say goodbye to one of my teachers, and I was crying because I was afraid of what the future held. He encouraged me to stop trying to do everything perfectly and to focus on the things in my life that matter most to me. He said it was fine to let the rest be just okay. I woke up thinking this was probably some of the best advice I ever received. And then I put it to good use. I decided I could be a better, more present mother, wife, friend, daughter, person. I also started working like crazy to finish my novel. Now, quite a bit later, I feel a stronger connection with my family and community, and three agents are considering my novel. All because of some timely advice IN A DREAM.

They came with the house

Imagine Brady's reaction every time she sees them. (In her defense, I love duck. Hey Ella, didn't you have duck at dinner the other night?) We hope the (imaginary) new owners take better care of the pond, are vegetarians and don't have a homicidal dog.

More waiting!

So it turns out my girlfriend Ella, here with daughter Nathalie (and preggers with Katherine, now 14 months), is moving back to Portland with her family. (I felt my excitement over this development might be best expressed through interpretive dance, which I attempted the other night in the parking lot of Meriwether's, but I don't think Ella, or hubby Nathan, were too impressed.) Anyway, of course it's MONTHS from now, which means one more thing to friggin' wait for look forward to. And then there's the question of what to do with Grace now that I have Ella back, since one has room for only so many bossy blondes in one's life. Plus, Ella knows all the rules of fashion and will shop patiently for shoes and handbags with me, whereas Grace is lacking in this department. But in all seriousness, yippee!

Does this haircut make my butt look big?

Brady went to Hair of the Dog yesterday to have a little spring cleaning. She was pretty matted around her posterior, so they had to cut off quite a bit of her fancy tail feathers. I burst out laughing when I saw her, which probably hurt her feelings, but she just looked so puffy.

Livin' in limbo

The family will be going through quite a few transitions soon. This summer we'll be moving into a new house and neighborhood and selling our current home (fingers crossed); I'm dedicating the month of April to potty training (Grace); Grace will start pre-school May 1st at a great new place; I have two full manuscripts and two partials (of my novel) being considered by four agents, along with countless queries; and, of course, we're counting the days (122) until Grace turns three. Aside from sprucing up the house, right now there's really nothing to do but wait. But I'm not good at that. I'm not a very patient person, and these changes looming — even though they're all positive — feel a little like torture to me because I can't DO anything. So I'm working hard on enjoying the present. Having Grace and Brady helps; kids and dogs live effortlessly in the moment. I'm learning that sometimes it's fun just to marvel at Grace's pretty ears.

Not even REMOTELY under control

We love visiting my parents for lots of reasons, not the least of which is their huge, park-like property that is COMPLETELY FENCED IN. This means we can shoo Grace and Brady outside and go take a nap. Sometimes we'd rather watch TV, but this is impossible because, even though Mom and Dad have a gigantic, fancy TV and some satellite situation that lets you watch anything, anytime, John and I can't figure out how to turn it on, change channels or adjust the volume. Somehow they've ended up with this crazy collection of remotes, and I swear each one performs a single function. The frustration is just too much. It's like having a book you've been dying to read, but you can't find your glasses, or a pint of Ben & Jerry's Go Phish and no spoon.

Over the holidays I tried to make their newest "universal" remote do its job, but there was always one component or another that wouldn't surrender. So my dad bought ANOTHER universal (the "Harmony" — I love that!) and was programming it with the TV muted. My mom, the cat, the main dog and the emergency backup dog all happened to be in the living room when Dad hit a button and the giant TV — with three big speakers and a sub-woofer — came roaring to life AT FULL VOLUME. My mother said every one of them became literally airborne. Oh, to have that moment on video! It would be better than all of my slip and falls put together.

Comic relief

This is my all-time favorite Easter cartoon. Every year someone sends it to me and I giggle about it for weeks.

Sharing is caring.

Okay, I was wrong about the full body pain being a result of my fall. Turns out Grace and I are sharing a virus, the details of which I will NOT go into. The absolute worst part of suffering the same illness as Grace is knowing just how crappy she feels. Of course, while I'm lying in bed whimpering, she's being quite stoic. (She didn't get that from me or John.) So why am I up blogging? Because I hurt too much to sleep, and I promised my client I would work on her database this weekend. (I began this project when I was seven months pregnant with Grace and intended to wrap it up before she was born. Patient doesn't even begin to describe my client!) Also, I'd like way more sympathy than John can provide. Bring it.

Feeling the pain

A few days ago my mom was freaking out expressing her concern about our decision not to reinstall the safety gate at the top of the stairs after Grace's repeated yanking on it pulled the giant plastic anchors out of the drywall. I told her Grace was navigating the stairs like a pro, and I was more likely to fall. Then I said a handful of words I immediately wanted to take back: "Huh, I haven't fallen in a while." I knocked on wood, but last night, sure enough, I fell down the stairs into our living room. Nothing was bleeding, no one saw me (except Brady, who was all, "You are such a clutz.") and this morning I couldn't find a single bruise on my body. But now? EVERY PART OF MY BODY HURTS, including my toes. I'm old.

I've tried to be a good sport about falling over the years, mostly because it usually happens in public, and no one likes a crybaby. I once fell down the stairs into the shoe department at Nordstrom (downtown, of course), a sort of sacred place for me. Within minutes I was surrounded by men in dark suits talking into their wrists. I muttered something about the steps being wet to save face, so you know somebody watched THAT video over and over to make sure there would be no litigation. Then I slunk off and bought a pair of fabulous, expensive and totally impractical shoes to soothe my nerves. When I got home, and I swear I am not making this up, there were TWO RIGHT SHOES in the box. I went back the same day.



I had a spectacular fall down a looooooong flight of stairs at a train station in Italy. When I finally hit bottom I was like a beetle stuck upside down, legs waving in the air, because I was wearing a big backpack. My friends helped me up and I limped to the hotel with blood soaking through the knee of my jeans. Sigh. Good times.

I could go on, but I think I'll just start a category called "injuries" and share a good one from time to time. Feel free to join in. Now I'm gonna go have a nip of tequila and try to get into bed without incident.

Bye, little Tessie

My mom rescued this toy poodle. She'd been in a puppy mill and her vocal chords were cut. When my mom brought her home, her back legs were so underdeveloped she couldn't jump, her bark sounded like a whisper and she was a nervous wreck. Before long, she could jump on the couch, she adored Tootsie (the white toy poodle), she always had a lap to sit on and she was the happiest little pooch ever. I imagine she couldn't believe her luck. She was old, though, and yesterday she joined all the other family pets we've said good bye to over the years. I hope she's barking and running like crazy now.

Got a little spring fever.

Did music class, did the park. Might as well take some pictures.


I attempted an at-home bang trim. Twice. Clearly, we'll be having a professional finish up.


What's so funny about this picture is that they both look so sweet. Not at all as though Grace might hit me hard enough to knock a contact lens out, or Brady might dislocate my shoulder if she sees a cat when we're on a walk. But what is fantastic is how they now peacefully coexist (most of the time), when we used to wonder who would kill the other first, given motive and opportunity.


Daddy's home! It would be really hard to say, of the three of us, who's most excited. It's also a toss up who has the most fabulous hair, Brady or Grace.

Move BACK!

More beach pics, courtesy of my mom.


Grace has picked up a few phrases at daycare that she uses inappropriately, and sometimes hilariously. When the waves came too close at the beach, she held out a hand and imperiously ordered, "Move back!" It didn't work much better than when she says it to me when I'm trying to brush her teeth or wipe her nose, but we laughed harder.


She's in her own little world sometimes, and other times she won't let us out of her sight. Here, she appears to be wondering who these people are who keep trying to interact with her.


Whenever we leave someplace fun (the playground, the beach, even daycare, we must go through the bye-bye ritual to avoid a meltdown.


She was ambivalent about leaving my parents. She cried when we loaded up the car and she thought we were abandoning her, and then she cried when she realized she was coming with us and had to say another heart-wrenching good bye to Gabba and Gampa. Oh, the DRAMA OF IT ALL.

Sam Adams video

Here's a cool ad John's agency, North created for Sam Adams' campaign for mayor.

Life's a beach.

Here are some photos from our long weekend at my parents' beach house. The next batch will be from my mom, so they will be in focus.


Grace had a little energy for a change.


Gabba can always calm her down. Almost always.


A man and his dog at the beach.


"Never turn your back on the ocean, Gracie, okay?"


I think my mom's having fun here.


Max and his humans enjoy a beachy moment.


They love each other, but Max was tired and Brady had a headache.


Tuckered out on the drive home.

The potty training isn't going so well.

Grace isn't very interested in using the potty, but she loves turning over the step stool and pretending it's a cart. I think it's cute she's so creative, giving her doll a ride and all, but at some point the HOURS we've spent watching "Elmo's Potty Time" better start paying off for her, because John and I have the potty thing pretty much nailed.

I want to be ALONE.

I sometimes think Brady looks sad, and I assume she'd like more attention. I'm starting to wonder if all the wrestling we do with her at bedtime just annoys her. She's probably thinking, "Here we go again. My humans need more love. And I never get any treats afterwards."

Being a parent is HARD.

Yesterday Grace asked to take a nap at 11:30 — before lunch and two hours prior to her usual nap time. John and I were all, "Uh, okay sweetie, if you insist." Then she woke up from her nap with a fever and clearly miserable. But what the hell is a fever when there are no other symptoms other than EXTREME crankiness? A dose of ibuprofen seemed to help, but she wanted to be on one of our laps at all times and to know where the other parent was even if we were peeing in the bathroom ten feet away and she could hear the tinkle. So she fussed a bit in the middle of the night (morning, whatever), but ibuprofen quieted her and today she seemed okay for a while.

But then again today she wanted to go "nappy" before lunch, and when she woke up she had a bloody nose. When I say "bloody nose" I don't mean a little trickle; I mean blood POURING out of her left nostril. When I held a tissue up to stop it, she (naturally) thought I wanted her to blow. Ugh. So I did what any forty-year-old mother would do in this situation — I called my mommy. She and my dad got online and gave us the Mayo Clinic's guidelines for how to stop a bloody nose. It worked. Then she got a fever again and was all miserable. More ibuprofen — magic.

I'm still a mess and all I can say is that I'm so happy my parents are around to help in emergencies. THANKS, MOM AND DAD! Also, it's easy to think of something more difficult than being Grace's mom — not being Grace's mom.

The wonders of nature

My mom shared this educational video with me. It's fascinating.

Late night

A couple of months ago I spilled water all over my desk, and it ruined my keyboard. You think, "It's just water, it'll dry." But no, the keyboard was a goner. When I took it back to The Apple Store and mentioned the extended warrantee I'd purchased, Ducky (this was the nice young man who sold me my computer) said, "No problem--UNLESS YOU SPILLED SOMETHING ON IT." At this point, I might have just said, "No, it just stopped working." But I cannot lie, you see. Not unless I have had DAYS to come up with something plausible. So I hung my head and resigned myself to buying a new keyboard. BUT THEY DIDN'T SELL THAT KEYBOARD ANYMORE. They did, however, sell a more expensive version, which I would have been happy to purchase except that it was SILVER and didn't match my white iMac. (Seriously, what were they thinking?) Anyway, because I'm cute in a pathetic sort of way, the manager rummaged around in back and found some reject keyboard like my own and gave it to me — FREE. When I got it home I noticed the space bar was funky, and I discovered someone had popped it in upside down. Once I fixed that I was a happy camper. Lesson learned, right?

Tonight I spilled beer on my desk. I dove for the keyboard first, of course. I think it's okay. Guess how I'm celebrating? With a fresh beer. Cheers.

Over the moon

I don't know that the lunar eclipse (below) had anything to do with it, but Grace and Julian finally succumbed to the chemistry that has been building for years. Notice how his hands gently cradle her head. Really, it was too romantic.


(Photos courtesy of Julian's mom, Justine)

Sunshine!!!

We had a fun walk today, and I finally remembered to bring my camera. This happens so rarely that I took a LOT of pictures — way more than I'll subject you to here.


My nuclear family. Their backsides, anyway.


Those big blue eyes make me forgive her for hitting me today.


Finally got around to having my legs lengthened.


Handsome devil.


Sometimes Brady actually comes when called, and she does it the same way she does everything else — with conviction.


Grace loves the moon, and points it out if it's visible anywhere in the sky, day or night.


We showed her how to put her hands in her pockets. For some reason, this seems terribly mature and I find it hilarious.

D'ya think it has poop on it?

This morning I woke up with a headache (might have something to do with last night's wine consumption), and while I lazed in bed with a cold pack on my eyes, I overheard this conversation between Grace and John:

"What's this?"
"That's your brown shirt."
"Does it have poop on it?"
"I don't think so."
"What's this"
"Those are your white pants."
"D'ya think they have poop on them?"
"No, I don't think so."
"What's this"
"That's your red shirt."
"It's dirty."
"Yeah. That's why it's in the hamper."
"What's this?"
"Those are your pajamas."
"D'ya think they have poop on them?"
"No, they're just dirty."
"What's this?"
"Those are your green shorts."
"Do they have poop on them?"
"Yes. They definitely have poop on them."
"What's Mommy doing?"
"I think she's laughing at us."

Be mine.

Grace got her first Valentine at school Thursday. It was from Nate, a boy she adores. At first I thought he'd singled her out, and I was impressed by his excellent taste, then I realized that EVERYONE got one. Grace didn't seem to mind, but I was annoyed that Nate's mom is so together that she thought to do something so sweet for the kids.

The next day we had a play date with Maxwell and his mom, Deborah. He gave Grace a HAND MADE Valentine, but I have no picture because Grace carelessly left it at their house. It was lovely, and I suspect a bit of Deborah's impeccable taste crept into its design. John and I are ready to seal the deal on Maxwell's and Grace's future marriage, and we're building her dowry. I'm not sure Deborah and Matt are on board yet. Maxwell is quite a catch and probably wants to keep his options open.