12of12: March (Saturday)

On the 12th of each month, I take 12 photos to document my day. Here's what the 12th of March looked like in the Bell home.

[Click on the block of photos to enlarge.]

1. We finally put the finishing touches on the punk's new big boy room. He now has shelves and a hamper.

2. Sweeping the master bedroom after my man installed our new shelves. We're still working on our finishing touches.

3. The punk gets to watch a cartoon when I get in the shower. Last time I left him to his own devices without the distraction of TV, he biffed it off the fireplace hearth and I had to run out of the bathroom, naked and wet, to rescue him. Today he chose Thomas the Train.

4. Lunch: scrambled eggs, cheddar, and Uncle John's salsa on a toasted sesame bagel. Yum!

5. I wanted to show the size of my 39-week belly so I laid down for this shot. Then the punk came in to join me for the photo shoot.

6. It was overcast and a bit gray today, but warm enough for some park action. Should I have let the punk jump with a stick in his hand?

7. Maternity jeans and cowboy boots.

8. Climbing the spiral.

9. Bringing Up Boys by James C. Dobson

10. My man and I went to the Red Iguana for our last date this century.

11. It was seriously the best Mexican food I've ever had. I found myself making involuntary "yummy" sounds.

12. We returned home in time to enjoy the punk's nightly bath/bedtime routine as a family.

Gooooooooood Morning!

I am so happy. So, so happy!

For the past 3 days, the punk has been getting up between 5:30-5:45 am.

Not. Good.

I have never, ever been a morning person. My childhood friends know this. I was always the one at the slumber party who, when everyone else was waking up and whispering, giggling, and getting up to enjoy their Cocoa Puffs, retracted back into my sleeping bag, put my hand over my ears, and huffily went back to sleep until their mom came in with the vacuum. Before I had the punk, a co-worker told me that becoming a mom would turn me into a morning person because the wee hours are the only time a mom has to herself. Not so. Guess what. The hours after the kid goes to bed are precious adult hours too, and I will take the dark stillness of midnight to the dark stillness of 5 am any day.

So, when the punk got up at 5:30 on Wednesday, I led him back into his room, told him it was too early to get up, and went back to bed, only to have him come waltzing back into my room a few minutes later. I figured it was a fluke and wouldn't happen again. Then it happened again on Thursday. And again on Friday. This is not acceptable. I have less than two weeks of life without a newborn and I refuse to awake before the sun on these last precious days.

So last night, I put a digital clock in the punk's room. As he was going to bed, my man and I showed him the numbers on the clock and compared those numbers to the "7:00" I had written on a piece of paper. We told him that when the first number on the clock was 7, that's when he could get out of bed. Then we crossed our fingers and turned off his light.

This morning, I heard his door open and his little pajama-clad feet padding into my room. It was 4:00 am. I asked him what number was on his clock and we went into his room to investigate. When he saw that his clock had a 4 on it, he got back in bed with a reminder to watch for a 7. I went back to bed, fully expecting to see him again in 20 minutes.

The clock says "4:10."

But the next time I opened my eyes, I noticed the faint glow of dawn coming in through the blinds. Could it be? I checked the time: 6:30! My man got up to work out and I lay in bed to bask in the "late" hour. I was so thoroughly rested that I didn't even go back to sleep. I just lay there smiling, and then turned on my light and read for a little while.

At 7:30, the punk came walking out of his room, holding proudly the paper that said, "7:00." And there was much rejoicing.

Toddler Speak

Usually I can understand everything the punk says, even when others can't. But this morning, as we were enjoying our bagel sandwiches and grapes, he had me stumped. We were listening to my girl mix (Sara Bareilles, Regina Spektor, Emily Hope Price, Adele, She & Him, Lisa Loeb). While listening to music in the car or at home, he often asks me who we are listening to: "Oh, who's that song?" He even knows the words to many songs on the new Sara Bareilles CD, much to my man's dismay and my amusement.

This morning, he kept asking me something about Simba Wallace. After trying to figure out what he was talking about, I brushed the topic aside and asked if he wanted some more grapes. But then he brought it up again, this Simba Wallace character. After I still didn't get it, he asked me who was singing, to which I replied,

"This is Sara Bareilles."

"Simba Wallace?"

Ah. There it is.

Simba Wallace = Sara Bareilles.

Snow Boots and Slippery Slides

Monday's luscious rainstorm soon turned into a major winter storm that dumped 16 inches of snow at our house. The sun has since been trying to melt the frozen stuff away, but it's not working fast enough for the punk and me. We decided to arm ourselves with coats, snow pants, hats, gloves, boots, and a towel to dry the slides, and visit the park despite the wet, white wonderland.

The sky was just as fluffy and white as the ground.

I don't think the punk minded one bit. In fact, there were two other two year-olds with their moms on the same playground. It seems everyone is itching to be outside.

Rainy Backyard

It's not often that we desert dwellers have the experience of seeing moss on our trees and fences, so when I caught a glimpse of the beautiful bright green stuff while enjoying my hot chocolate this morning, I just had to get outside.

The punk has, not surprisingly, adopted my love of the sweet golden liquid. He calls it "hot hot chocolate," to the tune of Hot Cross Buns. This is what happens to a person who blows bubbles in his breakfast beverage. When the outdoors beckoned, we just slipped some boots over our pajamas and ran outside without bothering to clean ourselves up first.

I love rainy days.

Baseball Season

Last weekend, the punk and his daddy went sledding to make up for time lost to a business trip during the week. Today, my man is investing in his retirement. It's called left-handed hitting.

Impertinence

Anyone who has ever been pregnant knows that there are plenty of people in our world who have no problem asking impertinent questions of a gestating woman. I've addressed this topic before, but I will never cease to be surprised at the lack of tact or thoughtfulness these people can possess.

For instance, when finding out that I am about to have a second boy, these weirdos imply that I should be sad that I didn't get a girl this time. What is the sense in that?

Or, when considering the size of my giant belly, these people have asked if I'm sure I'm not having twins.

While we expectant mamas are often the targets of thoughtless, stupid, or intrusive questions and comments, I've found another category of human that shares this same misfortune:

Old men with long, white beards!

The punk and I were enjoying a leisurely lunch at the Costco deli when two sets of strangers joined us on nearby benches. These two couples began conversing with each other, and I, having nothing to distract me besides the task of cutting up the punk's pizza, had no real choice but to witness their conversation. They talked about where they lived and what they were doing at the Murray Costco, and then Mrs. Bandana asked Mr. Whitebeard, "So, are you a Santa Claus at Christmastime?"

He snorted and then grunted, "No." His wife then came to his rescue with an excuse: "He's not good with children."

So, are we all clear about the rules?

1) All mothers should be disappointed if their first two children are of the same sex AND

2) All bearded men are expected to dress in furry red felt in December and let scores of snotty kids sit on their laps.