New Midlife Mommy

Recently Overheard At Our House

DD:    AAAAAHHHH.  NOOOOOOO.  Mommy, DON'T FLUSH THE POTTY!!

Me:    Um, why not, DD?  We need to flush the potty after you go.

DD:    I don't want to say.

Me:    It's OK sweetie, why don't you want me to flush the potty?

DD:    You know.

Me:    Um, the -

DD:    DON'T SAY IT MOMMY!!!!

Me:    (whispers) you mean . . . the wolves?

DD:    AAAAAHHHH.  You said it mommy!  You said it mommy!

[DD has been afraid of wolves since she saw one on a Little House on the Prairie rerun and the Martha Speaks cartoon.]

Me:    OK, DD.  What does the thing-that-I-can't-mention have to do with the potty?

DD:    (Points to the top tank and whispers)  Up there, mommy.

[We have one of those pull chain toilets]

Me:    I don't really think anything is up there.  How about if we look up there?  I'll hold you tight, and nothing will hurt you.  I promise, and you know I always tell you the truth.

DD:    (looks unconvinced but agrees)

[Ugh.  Lifting 43 pound child.]

Me:    See?  Nothing there, right?

DD:    No, mommy.

Me:    So, no -

DD:    SHHHHHH, mommy.  DON'T SAY IT!

Me:    OK, I won't say it.

DD:    But they're there mommy.  They just aren't up there now.

Me:    Well, where did they go?

DD:    They went down the pipes.

Me:    (pointing to pipes that are about 2" in diameter) Those pipes? 

DD:    (nods)

Me:    DD, how does a you-know-what fit down the pipe?

DD:    (gives me a well, du-uh look) They shrink mommy.

Me:    Oh.  Well how do they breathe?

DD:    (another duh look)  They have scuba equipment, of course.

Me:    Oh.  How does a -

DD:    DON'T SAY IT MOMMY!

Me:    OK, OK.  Well how does one of those get scuba equipment?

DD:    Moom-meeee . . . they buy it of course.

Me:    Oh.  Really?  Where?

DD:    At the store, where you would buy it.  Geez, mommy.

Me:    But DD, if they've gone down the pipes, then they've gone to the sewer where everything else goes, so no worries!

DD:    No, mommy.  They come up into the water part under the lid.

Me:    Well how can they come up when the water is flushing down?  Wouldn't the water push them away?

DD:    They are very good swimmers mommy, just like me.

Me:    OK.  So the reason that we can't flush the potty is because there may be a you-know-what that shrinks down to microscopic size while wearing scuba gear that might come up into the bowl?

DD:    Exactly.  That's what I've been trying to tell you!

Me:    [Sigh.  There's just no arguing with that.]

 

 

What is Concealed is Eventually Revealed

I am in love with genealogy.  And that's putting it mildly.  Obsessed would be a better term.  Because of this interest, I often wonder how DD will view the family tree.  Will she accept that she's been adopted into mine?  Or will she think of genetics as everything, and reject my half of the family?  That would well and truly break my heart, but I would understand it at some level.  After all, didn't I have those same thoughts as I struggled with the idea of using donor eggs, and didn't I think that somehow meant the baby wouldn't be "my" child?  Ridiculous in hindsight, but it was a real struggle for me to get from there to here, where I don't even think about it anymore.

One of the things that has struck me as very interesting is the increasing usage of DNA testing to help with genealogical research.  Costs have come down significantly.  Researchers are cautioned to work on their paper records and then use genetic testing to help make connections, but I suspect as the cost decreases further, caution will be thrown to the wind and people will begin their search with DNA.  I've mentioned this in at least one online community focused on people who've used donor gametes, and my comment was met with - silence.  No one wants to consider this as an issue at the moment, especially those who don't want to tell (the minority), but it is an issue worth considering.

One of the things I never, ever want to happen with DD is for her to find out that we aren't related through a genetic test.  Or at a doctor's visit when family history is important.  Or, even worse, through a whispering from family or friends.  We didn't make a secret of our journey, and while most have forgotten, I'm sure some remember.  I think that would be an amazing betrayal of trust for DD to find out from someone other than me.  While I know that I know that I know that I am her mother, hiding her creation story would cause more of a rift between us than being honest would, I think. 

I'm not sure when the telling will occur, but I suspect the time is getting closer.  "Your eyes are hazel, and daddy's eyes are dark brown - where did my eye color come from?"  "You like red, daddy likes blue, and you made me, and I like purple!"  "The President is part Black and part White?  How does that happen, mommy?"  "I'm part Italian?  What is daddy?  What are you?"  I answer, speaking in measured truth, because my daughter has a frighteningly accurate memory.  She would certainly catch a misstep that I might make because I'm not certain she's ready to hear.  So I try not to make them.

Even if she were older and had the money to do it, it would be hard for DD to use genetic testing to learn the truth about our relationship, at least as I understand the current state of DNA and maternal line testing.  But that is just for now, and that may not be the case when she gets older.  Which is why I found this article ("Are You My Mother?") very, very interesting.

You know, I've recently learned that my grandfather might just have been on the way when his parents were married.  A scandal in those times, though not today.  (Actually, it made me smile, because my great grandmother never smiled in any of the photos taken of her - it tells me she wasn't always so crabby!).  How did I learn this?  Simple, actually.  Her notation in the family bible shows her marriage in one year, and my grandfather's birth in the next.  I believed that to be true, until I found the official marriage register, which recorded the return date of the completed marriage license, and that told me that my grandfather came along about five months after his parents were married.  So, the story that I was told from childhood about my grandfather being a preemie was probably to cover up in case the neighbors noticed anything amiss.  Surely, finding the truth about things is just going to get easier in the future.

"There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known.  What you have said in the dark will be heard in the daylight, and what you have whispered in the ear in the inner rooms will be proclaimed from the roofs."  Luke 12:2-3.

True words, indeed.

We Interrupt Our Regularly Scheduled Programming To Bring You . . .

Lice!  Yes, lice.  Creepy, skreepy, yucky, ucky, ooey, gooey (gooey?), m*ther f*cking LICE!

Shortly before Christmas, DD's principal notified the parents that there had been a case of lice in DD's room.  After that, DD and her classmates were subjected to daily head searches (from both the school and required of us, as though we actually knew what we were looking for - um, ew?), bagging of her personal possessions, enforced personal distance, a requirement that we put her hair up (which she freaking hates), and a demand that we wash her coat and accessories on an almost daily basis.  Which, of course, made for an overall skeevy feeling whenever we walked into her classroom.

It happened again in January.  Lather.  Rinse.  And repeat in March. Needless to say, I was p*ssed.  Because really?  How freaking hard could it be to get rid of a case of lice?  We'd heard it was the same kids over and over, with the occasional new kid infected - so who were the parents who weren't working at it hard enough?  (I know, not fair, but seriously - three times?)

In an effort to eradicate the lice, the school brought in the equivalent of a nuclear bomb - a professional lice brigade!  Who inspected everyone's head.  And guess what?  Ah, yes.  They found a nit in DD's head.  DD and three other children were forced to sit in the principal's office until mom and/or dad came to get them.  How embarrassing.  (And totally unnecessary, really, because helloooo . . . this has been going on for months.)  The third bout with lice turned out to be, well, not exactly a charm for DD.

When I arrived at the school, after I hugged my poor daughter who I imagine was feeling a bit like Typhoid Mary,* the principal handed me an index card with a taped "sample" from DD's head.  It was a nit, but holy cow - it was about half the size of a typed "." and completely unlike any of the pictures that I'd Googled.  Oh, and did I mention that it was also brown and matched her hair color exactly?  I now know that I would need a magnifying glass to see a nit.  They told us that we could keep the card as a souvenir.  Yay! 

Have I mentioned lately that even though DD has her own room, she still sleeps with us?  Next to me?  So, yes, I was little freaked out.  But, I'd already learned from the lice brigade's website that they offered a heat dryer treatment that was guaran-effing-teed to get rid of lice and eggs.  FDA approved.  One treatment.  One clean up.  All gone.  The price was a little steep ($145), but it included a lot of product, the head inspections (for everyone), and the heat treatment (for one person). 

The lice brigade's "boutique" (not their real name, of course) was located about an hour away from us.  I called them on my way to pick DD up.  Can you see us today?  How about in an hour?  Is an hour good for you?  I couldn't get an appointment until 2:30 that day, and it wasn't soon enough.  I told DH that he would need to meet us there, and everyone was going to get a head check.

All the way there, my head itched (and honestly, it has been itching a little bit the week before).  I was absolutely convinced that it was total party time on MM - because I could feel them moving people!!  Ewwww.  But, after the inspection, it turned out that DD was newly infected, because she had about 20 nits, nothing living, and DH and I were clean.

I thought that can't be true!  But it was.  I apparently just had a dry scalp that day.  And all movement that I felt was all in my head, not on my head.  I asked if I could be treated anyway, just in case.  The woman looked at me as if I were a bit nuts, and said that a lice treatment wouldn't be necessary for me, because, you know, I didn't actually have lice. 

DD loved the blow trying treatment.  Afterward, they put some yucky stuff in her hair and wrapped it in a plastic bag, which I think was supposed to dissolve any nit glue in her hair so that all debris would be washed away (it looked gross).  She only needed to leave it on for ten minutes, but our drive was much longer than that.  We left with an enzyme that supposedly dissolved both eggs and bugs that you could spray on furniture if you wanted, a super duper nit comb that I didn't need (because they combed DD's hair out), as well as some repellent (which aggravated my asthma for a week and totally wasn't worth it - I think it was made of eucalyptus and citronella).

I did learn some interesting things about these little effers, since we spent quite a bit of time at the lice boutique that day and I didn't have anything else to do except ask 50 million questions:

• Lice like clean hair, and maybe one of the reasons why they are being reported frequently these days is because we wash our hair more than we used to.  I do not ever remember hearing about lice when I was in school, but I also didn't wash my hair every day either - maybe this is why we didn't hear about them?
• Lice really can't move around very well when they aren't in your hair.  If you've ever seen a picture of one, it makes sense.  They have little claw like legs in the front, and a big butt - but no back legs!  You could point and laugh if one fell onto a counter; they aren't going anywhere.  It would be like having no legs and having to crawl around using your elbows.  Really inefficient.
• The over the counter products don't work, because hellooooo, they haven't changed the formulation in years, and the lice laugh - yes, they laugh - when you coat them with this junk.  (I just threw in the laugh part; I think they probably just smirk a bit.)  Honestly, based on what other moms have told me, I think that it's the daily use of the nit comb and good house cleaning - more than the over the counter insecticide - that gets rid of them.
• The forced clothes washing?  Hah!  More laughter from the lice, because they can old their breath for up to eight hours.  They could care less if you wash your clothes.  Wash them twice!  (Snicker.)
• Now as for the drying part, well, they don't like that very much.  All you need to do is use the dryer on timed high heat for 30 minutes, and presto!  Bugs and eggs - all gone.  (Insert maniacal laughter here, because I am empowered now.)  Things that can't be put in the dryer can just be put in a plastic bag for two weeks, or in the freezer for 24 hours.
• Lice are transmitted from one person to another through the obvious - sharing hats, touching heads, sharing hairbrushes - but they are also fabulous trapeze artists.  They actually can swing from an infected head to a non-infected head in a flash, and the hair barely has to touch.  Apparently, they are less inclined to trapeze over to a new head if the new head has the stinky repellent on it - kind of like you might not be inclined to walk into a kitchen where they were cooking  something that you really hate eating.  (I say that the repellent is "stinky" just because it makes me wheeze; I suppose it doesn't smell all that offensive to someone without asthma.)
• Head lice do not spread disease.
• According to our state's website, you don't have to empty the vacuum after your home clean up, unless of course you want to (they can't crawl around, remember?)
• The whole point of the clean up is to pick up any hairs that have fallen out of an infected head that might contain a nit, because the lice can hatch any time up to two weeks later.  So, I really didn't need to freak the f*ck out because I stupidly put my purse on the floor at the lice boutique in the treatment room - just a quick whisk with a lint remover was all that was necessary.
• Lice really can't live for very long away from a host.  They say that they can live up to 48 hours without a meal, but our state's website suggested that it really is only a matter of hours or even less.

I'd emailed our pediatrician right after we heard that there had been a third infestation but before I knew that DD was affected, because I've always felt that forewarned is forearmed.  She suggested something that actually suffocates the lice and is inexpensive to use (not an insecticide).  But the downside of that would be the daily clean up for the two week period, because the nits could still hatch.  I prefer the heat treatment, frankly. 

It's taken me awhile to write this post, and right now, we are at the point where we are ready to take our things out of plastic bags, and this is the end of the last week to wear her hair up.  Oddly, DD's been asking when she can go back to the lice boutique again, because she thought the blow dryer treatment was so much fun!

Eh.  I think I'll pass on that.

 

 

* - Though Typhoid Mary wasn't nearly as cooperative as DD.

Telling . . . Not What It's Cracked Up To Be

I had planned on giving DD her shirt and telling her about the baby on Sunday, but DH asked when we were going to share the "surprise" with her - in front of her - on Saturday while we were on our way to dinner.  Thinking that it was kind of unfair to talk about a "surprise" and then tell her she would have to wait, I asked him to turn around so I could get the "thing" (the shirt).  Poor DD.  She thought that we were talking about a 21" dolphin that she's been wanting for a long time.

Notwithstanding, DD was over the moon with excitement, and that hasn't changed over the last couple of days.  Laying the groundwork with her for the last couple of months has really paid off.  For example:

Me:    "How's my favorite girl?"

DD:    "Mommy, what happens if you have another girl?  Will I be your favorite?"

Me:    "Well, then I would have two favorites!"

DD:    (Obviously relieved expression)

And so on.  I can empathize with her.  She wants to know that she will be loved, that she will be important, and that she won't be replaced.  I get it.  And, somewhere deep down, I probably remember what that was like on some level (my brother came along when I was five). 

I wasn't so thrilled about telling my family.  My father has made it very clear that I'm too old and should not think about more children.  My brother, who doesn't know about DE, essentially told me last year that I am too old, that I could die, and that I would very likely have a Downs child.  My response to that was just that I'm certainly aware of the issues, that age itself doesn't make a person high risk, and, without going into details that weren't any of his business, he should be rest assured that medical science has evolved to the point where there are answers to his concerns.

I screwed up my courage and told my father on Saturday.  His response?  "Aw, sheesh.  You went ahead and did that, huh?  Well OK."  A ringing endorsement indeed.  And then, when I told my husband, he said he agreed - I am too old to be having a child.  Another ringing endorsement - from the person who said that he would be supportive.

I was p*ssed.  And went off to cry.  And then I started madly texting my girlfriend who went ballistic when I told her what happened.  Her daughter had an "oops" and is expecting in December.  She will turn 21 in December, and she's not married.  When I first heard the news, I felt sorry for her, because I know that this will make her life infinitely harder.  My friend is being supportive, and her daughter, boyfriend, and new baby will be staying with her.  The ground rules are that they will have to make arrangements to take care of the baby, but it will give them a chance to finish school and have an opportunity to start a good life.

Anyway.  My friend said that her daughter has been the target of "you're too young" to be a mom comments that have really hurt her.  Hearing about my "you're too old" comments sent her off the deep end.  My friend works for the state human services department, and she said that if even 5% of her clients were the kind of parents my husband and I are, or that she expects her daughter to be, the children of those relationships would be far better off. 

I felt better.  And, having learned that it is better to confront than to seethe (still working on that though), I called my father back and told him that I felt hurt after hearing his response.  And then I was hurtful (beyotch that I can be, I guess), and I told him that at that moment, I really missed my mother, because she never would have responded that way.  He apologized and said that he didn't intend to hurt me, that grandchildren were always a blessing, but that he was concerned about my health.  I explained that none of my doctors were concerned about me being high risk, and I guess that made him feel better.  And I do understand - his concern is for his child first.  I guess that never changes, no matter how old we grow.

Despite resolving this with my dad, I just couldn't bring myself to call my brother.  So, I sent my brother and his wife a very cheery email last night.  I still haven't heard anything from either of them, though I know that they both check their email every day.  I guess if you don't have anything nice to say, you shouldn't say anything at all.  Like the way I never told him how disappointed we were when he told us he was getting married.  Or commented when his wife wouldn't allow his children to be baptized because she wanted them to "choose," but then never took them to church so that they knew what to choose.  Or said anything about the ham-handed way they have handled discipline for their children (which prompted us to make guardianship arrangements for DD in the event that anything happens to us to completely avoid any possibility that she would be raised in their home).  Or mentioned how unfair it is to have more children than you can afford so that you can't offer them any help when it is time to go to college, instead putting small amounts away for them myself so that I could help when the time comes.  Yeah, like those things.  Saying "congratulations" doesn't cost a dime, but I guess it's too costly for them.  They are not bad people, but really, all of us have things that others could be judgmental about, so perhaps it's best just to wish people well and live our own lives as best as we can.

I finished my twelfth week yesterday, and I'm already irritated by all of this ageist cr*p.  For the record, age doesn't make a pregnancy high risk - underlying medical conditions will put you in this category.  Being older and developing more medical conditions do tend to go together, so there are more high risk pregnancies for older moms.  But those same conditions will put a younger mom in the high risk category.  None of my doctors saw any issue in my getting pregnant, not even the physician who treats me for asthma (I have a mild case that can be treated with a Category B drug). 

I'm just amazed at the presumptions that people make - even my new OB suggested that he could probably sneak in a tubal ligation, even though I will deliver in a Catholic hospital (I'm not Catholic, but he doesn't know that).  First of all, helloooo - were you not listening when I told you about my infertility?  Or the DE thing?  Secondly, shouldn't I be the one bringing up the tubal ligation?  I don't want any more children, but I hadn't mentioned that.  I'm sure my old-fashioned father feels slightly embarrassed about telling his friends who do know my age about my pregnancy, but was he any less embarrassed about my brother telling all of his friends that he and his now wife were expecting without the benefit of a marriage (which didn't come until my nephew was several months old)?

Just needed to vent, and I'm trying very hard not to doubt myself (but it's there, waiting, just at the edge of my thoughts).  For now though, I think I'm just going to bask in the warmth of DD's sunshine.

Thank you!

Without you, there wouldn't be a "them":

http://wwj.cbslocal.com/2010/10/04/ivf-pioneer-wins-nobel-prize-in-medicine/

 

Starting Over, And A Question For You

On CD3 right now, and we're going to try the same protocol with short-term ovulation suppression (not Lupron!).  Hopefully, it will be a go, and the three days of couch rest that I plan to take this time won't interfere with any major summer event in what has turned out to be a jam-packed summer.

And now, the question for you (provided that anyone visits anymore, given that I've been really bad about posting).  It appears that the Tooth Fairy will be paying us a visit soon, because DD has her first loose tooth!  Ironically, I think it is the same tooth that came in first, or maybe that's how it's supposed to work.  Lower left center front. 

All I can say is "wow."  I remember that my mother used to pull mine out when they were loose, but is that really necessary?  Won't they wiggle out on their own with the child's help?  I think that my experience was a bit more traumatic than it needed to be.

DE And Intern*tional Day

(Nothing new on the cycle front.  My period has not started yet, and it is now a couple of weeks later than I would have expected it.  It's been a couple of weeks since the hot flashes from estrogen withdrawal have stopped.  Though I've been tempted to call the doctor and ask for something to start my period, I have this pig-headed notion that this cycle should be as "natural" as possible (insert loud, hysterical laughter here)).

Moving on to something more interesting than my dysfunctional body, we, or should I say I, had the first DE thing come up at our house -- sort of.  As you already know, I am not ashamed of DE, and I'm in the telling camp (as is my husband).  I hope that my daughter doesn't someday reject me over this (my secret fear), but I doubt she will, especially if it's not dumped on her out of the blue.  After all, I didn't reject her -- I don't even think about it, and I still have the outrageous belief that the sun, the moon, and the stars revolve around her sweet (well, mostly sweet) little head.  Without me, she wouldn't be.  She grew inside me, and my body nourished her for a long, long time.  She is mine, mine, mine.  But she doesn't share my genes.  Or my ethnicity.  Legally, she shares my family tree.  But biologically, she shares part of someone else's tree.

Because she's only five, we haven't gotten into all of the science of reproduction yet.  Yet, DD does know the following facts:

• Men have sp*rm, women have eggs, and both are necessary to have a baby
• Mommy needed help to have a baby
• Babies begin as embryos that need to attach to the inside of mommy's uterus before they can grow into babies (we've looked at pictures of all stages of a child inside the womb)
• Most babies come out a special opening in mommy's vag*na, but the doctor took her out of mommy's tummy (she's seen and felt the scar, and my husband described what he saw when she was born and the moments after a few days ago)
• The doctor helped mommy have a baby by putting three embryos into mommy's tummy, but only two embryos attached, and only one was born - her!

You know, now that I think about it, that last little fact may have slowed the growth of questions.  The question that I asked my mother, after learning about sp*rm and eggs, was how does the sperm get to the egg?  And that in turn prompted the "big" discussion. 

We have given DD a strange perspective, since most mommies have no idea how many embryos traveled into their uterus and when.  Though for the most part, I'll bet she's forgotten about these discussions.  I usually like to wait until she brings something up, so I'm sure we'll get a chance to talk about it one of these days.

OK.  The latest issue.  I have mentioned that I am a rabid amateur genealogist during the three minutes a day that I get to work on it.  And, I am a third generation American on all sides.  When I asked my family why none of that rich cultural heritage was passed on to us, I was told that when my great grandparents immigrated and went to the trouble of seeking citizenship, they wanted more than anything to assimilate and be indistinguishable from other citizens.  A side effect of this is that I couldn't make an ethnic dish to save my life.  And I don't speak a second language (just a smattering of Spanish, learned in high school and college).

DD is having Intern*tional Day at her school.  On Intern*tional Day, the students can wear "native dress," using an index card to provide the name of the outfit, the country it represents, and a few "fun facts" about the country.  They want to set up each classroom to represent countries around the world.  They want artifacts that the parents feel comfortable displaying.  Children can also bring a "cultural" snack.

So.  This has prompted a discussion in our house, and at first, I was tempted to just keep her home that day, just because it would put DD in the uncomfortable position of having to learn about a culture that she knows nothing about in a week and a half.  Kind of like studying for an exam relating to a subject that heretofore, you were clueless about.  And, in order for her to bring in cultural "stuff," we would have to go out and buy it.

The assignment prompted a discussion.  DD wanted to know about her background, and ours.  Of course, that would be only natural.  I told her that a long, long time ago my side of the family came to the United States and if you asked them, they would tell you that they are American.  Even though my husband's father immigrated to this country when he was very young, I would suspect that, if he were here, he would likely say the same thing.  I believe this to be true because my husband does not speak his father's first language, and as for food, he can prepare a total of two dishes.  So, DD's heritage, more than anything else, is American.

Well, being an American is not very appealing to DD.  I understand.  It's not exotic, and I remember feeling the same way about this issue when I asked my parents to talk to me about my ethnicity.  As a result, she doesn't want to dress in red, white, and blue.  She wants to know what her ethnic heritage is, beyond being an American.  And she wants to know about mine.  And DH's.

I was truthful.  And DD hasn't connected the dots.  Yet.  She didn't find it at all odd that I am part Canadian and she is not, for example.  (I'm sure her teachers might try to correct her if she were to repeat that.)  DD is bright, and she sees relationships between things fairly quickly.  So one of these days, she will probably wonder why she has her father's ethnicity, but not all of her mother's.  And that will probably prompt "the" discussion.  I think I'm ready.  Especially since I didn't flinch when, during a discussion about babies, we talked about the special opening all women and girls have to allow babies to come out.  DD told me that she was very aware of this second opening, because she'd felt it "tons of times, mommy." 

So, if I can make it through that without showing any embarrassment (thank goodness it was during one of our nighttime talks when the lights were dim and we were snuggling), I should be ready for the DE discussion.

At least I think I am.

I'm In You; You're In Me*

Or at least DD is in me, and perhaps there's a part of me in her?

Every time I read about this phenomenon, it makes me smile.  It's nice to know that we have a link, even if it it isn't the usual genetic tie.

As for Aunt Flo, she still hasn't made an appearance.  Though the estrogen withdrawal (mini hot flashes) seems to have stopped, and I'm happy about that.  It isn't a bit surprising that my body isn't back on track yet after the way I've treated it with back to back cycles.  I'm tempted, but I'm not going to call about taking something to start it.  Isn't the whole point to have a "normal" resting cycle?

* (Isn't this from an old Peter Frampton song?  I know I've heard it somewhere.)

Yawn

Nothing much going on here.  Waiting for my period to start, though I hope that it doesn't start before Wednesday of next week.  Just too hectic for me next week to try to schedule in blood and an ultrasound.  It really is kind of odd not to have a pill month, or to be on Lupron.  There is a rhythm with those drugs, and they make it easy to count down the days.

It seems like there are sweet little babies all around lately, and I see them everywhere I go.  One of my coworkers said that her sister is going to have triplets(!).  I think they're in shock, but my coworker said she'd take one, and I would take one so, problem solved.  (Unfortunately, that's not how it works.  Sigh.)

It's a shame that we can't just turn time back and do all those things with my daughter again.  Ah, the sweet baby-ness.  It's intoxicating.  As is the one year old, the two year old, the three year old, and so on.  They are all great seasons.  I hope that we have the chance to do it all again with a new personality.  You know, sometimes when DD is lying on my chest and looks up just right, her eyes look exactly the same as they did when she was a newborn and silently inquiring if it was time for her next milk snack (because after all, it had been a whole two hours . . .).

DD has her first dance recital next week (part of the hectic-ness).  Because she loses interest in things pretty quickly, we enrolled her in community education dance classes (only $80 for eleven lessons).  She's in a ballet/jazz class, and she seems to like it (especially the leaping; she really, really likes the leaping).  I was kind of surprised at the cost of the recital costume - $50 for something that she will never, ever wear again.  Yet, this is definitely not going to be a Hollywood show.  And that's OK.  I played a musical instrument when I was growing up, and there were always the nerve-wracking state and national competitions.  I suppose some people thrive on that, but it really wasn't for me.  Fortunately, my parents weren't task masters, and they didn't try to live vicariously through me.  But still, those contests were stressful.

Otherwise, nothing really exciting.  Though I did receive a genealogy Christmas present in April.  My cousin (father's first cousin) loaned me an album of photos from my dad's side of the family.  My dad's immediate family didn't take very many pictures when he was growing up.  My cousin told me that she would loan me the album so that I could scan the photos (another scanning project - love the results, but hate the process.  All I do is scan; in fact, I'm scanning as I'm typing this). 

I picked up the album on my way to my father's house for the never-ending Sunday cleaning project, and it gave him pleasure to look at it.  There was a picture of him in a horribly dorky little outfit, as well as the only picture that we are aware of in his military uniform.  (He really, really hated the army.  He was drafted and wished the days would go by much more quickly than they did. Consequently, he refused to sit for a professional photo in his uniform.)

We finished up our work a little early, and I suggested that my father look through his massive collection of keys that he'd been amassing as we've been cleaning to see if he could find the key to my grandfather's World War I trunk (which trunk has been sitting, unopened, at my parent's house for years and years).  We found the key and opened the trunk.  I was expecting to see a lot of moth-eaten uniforms, but instead, we found a treasure trove of photos and old letters.  I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.  Now, I just need to find the time to actually look through these things.  (And scan them, of course.  I wonder if I will be finished scanning before I die.)

That's really about all there is.  I know I've been absent from here for quite awhile.  Just nothing very interesting going on.  Not even any good DD stories lately.

Happy Mother's Day to those of you who are mothers.  To those of you who want to be, I pray that this will be your last year with empty arms.  And, if you are lucky enough to have a mom, do hold her tight.

Hard Lessons

DD is learning a hard lesson.

Sometimes, you just need to let go of your old underwear, no matter how cute they are.

Because if you don't, then you have to deal with those darn wedgies all day because your butt has simply grown too big.

And no penguin is worth all that aggravation.