Lady Funk

Yesterday, I finally admitted to myself that it's time to get my sorry butt onto the treadmill. In the past five weeks, I have run once. But with my half marathon training schedule staring me down, I gave into the fear. And it's a good thing too because it is truly upsetting how far one's endurance can fall in a relatively short amount of time. I had to walk for a quarter mile after each of my three measly miles.

Even though it took me too long and I probably looked like a fat chicken trying to run on a treadmill, I felt good after my first post-holiday workout. As I stretched in the family room and basked in the glow of freshly released endorphins, my man walked into the workout room and quickly came back out.

"Whew! That room stinks!"

"Well YEAH. I just exercised in it."

"I didn't know you smelled bad when you work out!"

"What?! You've smelled me after a run before."

"Not like that. It smells like a lady gym."

Perhaps I should be offended, but I just feel proud to have made it 8 1/2 years with a husband who thought I never stink.

'Twas...

...the night before Christmas.

I hope it's magical for you and yours!

The Basher Gets Bonked

"Well, I think his heart sounds okay." That's what his pediatrician told me at the basher's 9-month well-check yesterday after three failed attempts at listening to his chest; he just would not sit still long enough for her to hear anything, even with both of us holding him down. It was at this appointment that we learned that my busy boy's weight has decreased from the 70th percentile to the 5th. That's zero-five, as in my baby's knobby knees are wider than his thighs. His height hasn't suffered. He is not underfed. It's just that Mr. Squirmypants burns through every single calorie he ingests.

This morning I listened to him babble in his crib for a little while before I finally extricated myself from my warm covers. As I grabbed my glasses from my nightstand, I heard a loud bump and a big cry, so I quickened my pace to his room. I figured he had been standing in his crib and fallen over, bumping his head on the bars. It wouldn't be the first time. But when I opened his bedroom door, his cry wasn't coming from inside the crib. I looked down to find him sitting on the floor in between the crib and the rocking chair. He had pulled his wiry body up and over the crib wall! I should scratch the stocking stuffers and just get him a pull-up bar for Christmas. His older brother was in a crib for two years and in that time, he never even thought about escaping. Needless to say, 20 minutes later, my man had lowered the crib bed so that won't happen again. We've been watching him for signs of concussion this morning, but he's too busy climbing stairs and pulling toys out of all the drawers to bother slowing down for a head injury.

A Three Year-Old Boy

A three year-old boy holds out his hand to feel the purple and pink padded bras as he walks by them at the department store and exclaims, "Oooh! What are these?"

A three year-old boy points at a man pushing his kids in a cart at the grocery store and says loudly, "He's a stranger!"

A three year-old boy coughs up a bunch of phlem and then informs his mama that he "didn't swallow a snail."

A three year-old boy gets out of bed four times to "fix" (rearrange) the lone present under the Christmas tree.

When his mama peeks her head into the bathroom to ask if he is done, a three year-old boy matter-of-factly says, "No. I made one poop. I'm going to make a loooooooot of poops."

The bathtub of a three year-old boy is accessorized by a man-eating crocodile.

12of12: December (Monday)

On the 12th of each month, I take photos to document my day. As today happened to be the day of the punk's third birthday party, it was a fun one to record!

[Click on the block of photos to enlarge]

1. Can you say "morning person?" (I can't; it's not in my vocabulary.) 2. It is important that I allow the punk the space to dress himself, even if that means his pants and undershirt end up backwards. At least he got the underwear on right. 3. I loves me a hot shower. 4. Preparing for his pirate birthday party. 5. After the basher knocked over his full bowl of lunch, I cleaned carrots off the floor, wall, chair, heater vent, window, blinds, and yes, the ceiling. I think it was a clever ploy to get bananas and mixed berries instead. 6. Pirate cake pops! 7. The punk invited 7 little ragamuffins to his birthday party. 8. They played a beanbag toss game, colored pirate ships, sang songs, read a pirate book, ate cake pops and ice cream, and hunted treasure. I love that this present matched our pirate color scheme. 9. My parents and my man's parents were there to help us, thank goodness! 10. After the party, the punk and I took some cake pops to our friends who had brought a present for him when he was napping. 11. Christmas lights! 12. Torture by pajamas!

Bwudduhs

It is a pleasure to be a witness to their blossoming relationship. The punk can make the basher laugh just by looking at him. He knows all of his brother's tickle spots. He sings to him when the basher is crying. He shares bites of food with him and stands ready to catch him if he falls out of the dishwasher. (Did I really just write that?)

They wrestle on the ground together, and it's not only the punk throwing down. The basher is getting quick! He'll crawl all over his big brother and slobber him into submission. It is my hope for them that they will always be close. As the punk says, "He is my bwudduh. He needs me!" It really is remarkable to watch their relationship develop, independent of me. I love it.