Cheek

New Blog Coming Soon!

Pretty soon I will have a new blog, a new start. My brother is designing it for me and based on his previous work (he designs web sites) it should be amazing. When it's done, I will leave links here for the new blog. I'm hoping to upload a lot of my archives from Naked Ovary to the new blog, too, which will be called (big surprise.....da da da) The Naked Ovary. I just couldn't give it up!

I don't want to update too much, because I want to save it for NO, but things are good with everyone.

See you on the dark side!

How Do I Rue The Day? Let Me Count The Toys.

I am still wading through your tome on sleep and how to get some. I got none last night. I slept in one hour spurts and fed She Who Awakes Constantly every hour. Something must be up. It's bad, people. I'm going to compile all of your comments into a handy list that I will then refer to, so keep 'em coming.

You will be relieved to hear that I am not pregnant. It was an errant puke, I suppose, one of those UPEs--Unidentified Puking Episodes. At any rate, Random is relieved. And I guess you could say I was too--I mean who the hell do I think I am, anyway? Pregnant after a quickie, whilst on birth control pills and breastfeeding full time? Who am I, Fertile Myrtle? Heh. We all know what Tire* would have to say about THAT.

But here is the REAL point of my post:

There are several toys in the house that drive me absolutely insane.

These are generally toys given to us, generally in a goody bag or something, generally unrequested and immediately regretted. These are toys that, for whatever reason, inspire extreme movement or noise or jumping up and down or thrusting over and over in faces. Or they are just plain ugly, and always underfoot.

Past toys of this ilk include:

• A red flexible square of see-through plastic, about three feet by three feet, that came with a bowling set and that was used as a cape, a mask, a jumping off item, and anything BUT what it was supposed to be used for. I hid that thing about forty thousand times and MP always found it--I shoved it under the couch, behind the couch, folded it up and put it between books on the bookcase. Still she found it and put it on the floor for me to slide, trip on, and curse. It is now in some landfill. Sorry. 
• A pinwheel. This thing, although initially amusing and pretty, has been shoved in my face so many times it was broken over a knee (okay, it wasn't, but we plotted its death like that). It too met a garbagey end, and is entertaining some vultures as we speak. 
• The wooden sausage. See a previous blog post. 
• A tin of marbles. I gave MP this, in her stocking. Or rather, Santa gave it to her. I'd like to shoot Santa and her good intentions right about now. Those marbles are always underfoot, an army of marbles, always being poured into some other container (shoe, plastic bag, flower pot, coffee mug) and always threatening to choke baby Chloe. I want to kill these marbles. Lordy, does MP love these things, though, so I have not confiscated them yet. 
• And last but not least--a pom pom, which MP calls her "pom." This thing is used every day if possible, cheered heartily with, rammed, again, in our faces, left in my kitchen (there is a standing rule: no toys in the kitchen. The pom, however, somehow transcends the "no toy" rule as, MP attests, it's "not a toy.") MP will jump like mad with this thing, and bemoan the fact that there is only one of its kind (and it will stay that way, God help me, until she decides to become a cheerleader, at which point I will accept my fate as a Cheerleader Mom, ai).

So. What toys do you rue the day you ever purchased? What toys do you hate to listen to, hate to look at, hate to play with, hate to watch in action? What toys make you want to commit yourself? And why, pray tell, do you hate these toys? Please share your horror stories.

By warning each other, we will be doing ourselves a great service. It will keep the Bad Toys from making us crazy.

*In case you have no idea what I am talking about, I used to draw a comic featuring an infertile heroine and her pet tire.

Sleep? Yeah, I Remember That.

A long, long time ago, in the land of No Children, I got sleep.

I got some good sleep in those days, weekend morning sleep, early night to bed sleep, and naptime sleep. It was a plethora of sleep.

Then MP arrived, and she curtailed that sleep. She would take her time getting to bed, coming out regularly to ask for such items as her pillow (actually a blanket), or to tell me her Monkey Fish was making a weird noise (her aquarium toy that was running out of batteries and actually groaning). And she would wake up early, bouncing into our room at the good hour of 6 to 7 ish, announcing that "IT'S WAKE UP TIME!!!!"

And so there was less sleep to be had.

And then the littlest one arrived, she of the pterodactyl scream and the wide grin. And she was bound and determined that No Sleep would happen in the house, or else.

She teased us. Sometimes, she would sleep long stretches at a time. Other times, she'd awake every hour. At four months, the pediatrician scoffed and told me I needed to let her cry a bit, put her in her own bed (she was still in a bassinet next to ours), wean her off the constant night feedings. I scoffed right back (I can scoff real good) and ignored him. She still slept in the bassinet. I still fed on demand.

And now we are at the almost-seven-month mark, and she is not sleeping through the night, my friends. On the contrary. Sometimes, she will gloriously surprise us with a six hour stint and no wakings, but last night....last night she awoke, I am NOT KIDDING, around eight or nine times. Every hour. She fed for a minute or two and then went back to sleep. I tried to pat her, whisper shush, to no avail.

Random wants her out of our room and into her crib, but I'm concerned about what that will mean for me--I will then have to listen to the monitor, get out of bed, trudge down the hall in a half sleep, feed her, put her back, etc. etc. Rinse and repeat. I can barely, sometimes, discern where she is in her bassinet to take her out, let alone to walk down the hallway at the hellish hour of 2. In my house, we wake up at 4:45 for work (YES THAT'S AM, PEOPLE) so sleep is a premium.

I don't want to stop breastfeeding--and feeding her more doesn't seem to work--we feed her "real" food at dinner and she goes down shortly thereafter. I, like Random, would like her to eventually move to her crib, but I'd like her to be sleeping more before that happens. She could be teething--she's got no teeth yet, but waking up that much (every hour) is a bit unusual, even for her--she averages maybe 2 times a night. STILL. The night waking is nuts. Last night she woke herself up because she farted loudly--it made her cry (and Random and I laugh--we couldn't stop. There's nothing like laughing when you are so sleep deprived you can't even distinguish between the dog in your bed and the baby in the bassinet--and yes I have tried to put the dog back in the bassinet, thinking he was Chloe).

Anyway: Help. I need your sleep stories. I need book recommendations--I have the "No Cry Sleep Solution," but I'm not sure that will work with her since she's so booby attached. I need your wise, sage assvice. How do I work this?

Oh, and I should mention that I just threw up in the middle of the day and Random is so convinced I am pregnant that he took off immediately to the store to purchase an HPT. I am scoffing at him, because I am SO not pregnant. While it is true that I haven't resumed my periods yet and have missed a day or two of minipills here and there, the idea is so preposterous. I will let you know. In the meantime, tell me your sleep stories!

In Which I Emerge From My Pity Pit, With Pictures To Boot

  Oh, my sweet, smart, beautiful big girl. What a good sister you are: so patient when Chloe pulls your hair, such a good help, so funny and silly and creative. I love how you collect things of similar sizes and shapes--like marbles and wooden peas--and put them in containers that you tote with you all over, proclaiming that "the marbles need to be with me because they need their mommy and I am their mommy." I love the way you get concerned when someone or something on tv is sad. I love the way your little brows knit when you are trying to remember something, or think of an excuse. I love how you leave your room at bedtime, after you are supposed to be in bed, and stand in my doorway fabricating excuses for being up ("I have a secret to tell you!" or "Ummmmmmm...make sure if you go downstairs, that's just for a minute.") I love how you console your sister, singing her songs about not being sad. I love how when you are in time out, you sing about being in time out. You are the light of my life, little big girl and I adore you to the moon and back.

  To my gorgeous, happy, glorious baby: what a joy it is to take care of you, to be your Mama. You have the ability to make me laugh no matter what kind of mood I'm in. Your blue eyes, your wide smile, your hysterical giggle--I can't keep away from your warm neck, your slightly stinky feet, or the upside down C that makes up your belly button. You roll everywhere, my little rolly polly bug; you laugh all the time, at everything. You adore your big sister, love being with her. But it's your Mama you crave the most: you check me out all the time, grab my shirt and stick your head down it, eye me up. Your dad sings songs about you to me as you stare at me: "Don't you always feel like..someone is watching you?" and "Private eyes, are watching you, they see your every move..." You are just learning to sit up and soon you will be crawling--you can heft yourself up on your knees and hands and rock back and forth. I love you, baby, so much.

Here's to 2009. Thanks, as usual, for reminding me what's what. These two keep me going, in all ways that matter. I hope you have things that keep you going, and that you keep them warm, and close to your heart.

I Suck, But I Have Excuses To Why I Suck.

Yeah, I know. It's been awhile. I've been avoiding Typepad like it's a pile of guilty bills, or the hospital statement for Chloe's jaundice treatment that we still haven't paid because who the hell signed us up for out of network doctors anyway? I'm annoyed with myself, because I haven't been writing and I've gotten all rusty and out of practice. And I find myself writing only updates instead of the more interesting, meaty stuff that's happening, like my ongoing breastfeeding saga, or my sneaky push to have another child, or MP's blossoming as a big sister.

So here's the other part to my not writing: A smattering of depressive self-pity, the ugly, soul-darkening kind. I've found out that many of my friends from graduate school--the ones that I got my masters in writing with--have published whole books and are teaching writing at colleges. And I try not to hate the fact that I do not have a book, and I do not write daily like I always promised I would, and I am not even close to currently writing a book. And then I found out that my old, very very best friend from when I was 15 is a famous fashion designer who has had six runway shows (successful) and whose house is featured in magazines ("we got this antique, wall to ceiling mirror from a flea market in Paris, and had this piece shipped from Bali"). I'm thrilled that things worked out for her the way she planned: At age 13, we hung out on her bed and planned out our lives together. We were going to live next door to one another in awesome mansions, and she would design clothes while I, her top model, wrote in my spare time (when I wasn't strutting the catwalk, of course). This happened for her.

Well--yes, of course I'm thrilled for her, I adore her, even though we haven't spoken in a number of years. I will always adore her. But using all these successes--books published, fashions designed, houses decorated with gorgeous objets d'art--as a measure of where I am in life in terms of my career is not doing me any good in the self-pity department. I am nowhere near writing a book; I can't even drag my ass to the computer to write on this blog. I am way, way too fat to be even a fashion model for plus-size clothing (breastfeeding worked with the first thirty pounds but has not been able to shave off the twenty remaining...which if lost would STILL put me in the pudgy department).  And I lost a beloved job right before I gave birth last year, a job that I was so proud I had, thought I was good at, and had no idea I was about to lose. At a place that I still, unfortunately, work at, and have to face the fact that I failed every. single. day. that I go to work. (This kills me so much that I am trying to transfer now, from a place that was my second home less than a year ago.)

But none of this is really important, right? I keep telling myself that. So much else is going on--the kids are so, so good; my mom is getting better; my marriage is still strong. I count those as successes, and really, they are the ones to count. The career thing, that would be nice, though, if that could work out.

Since I last wrote, my mother has had surgery for kidney cancer. The doctor removed a tumor and her kidney, and she made it through well. The kidney cancer is gone, apparently; it hadn't spread. Next up is the lung cancer--a different cancer that the doctors found in her lungs. They will operate in late January on that and remove tumors and part of her lung. This will, supposedly, render her completely cancer free. Such good news, so far.

So this post leaves me with a question for you: What do you count as your great successes in life? What have you accomplished? And what do you do when you see everyone else getting somewhere, leaving you behind? Does it inspire you, or leave you wilted?

Thank You's, and Fresh Starts, and Other Stuff

First--thank you so much for your words of comfort, for your advice (not so assvicey) and your virtual hugs. It's been really, really hard here these past few days. During the two weeks when we didn't know what was going on (something on my mom's kidney, but they weren't sure if it was encapsulated or not, then thought it was and they'd just remove the kidney), I was doing okay--fingers in ears, blinders on, lalalalalalalalala. Once we heard that the tumor wasn't encapsulated, that it was possibly in her lungs, the fingers plopped out of my ears and all of a sudden I was on the Train To Hell. Every stop produced more and more horrible thoughts and I couldn't get off it no matter what I did--all I could think about was all the horror that we'd be in for, and it just got worse and worse as I went further into it. But I threw myself into teaching regardless (seniors in high school have this funny way of making you temporarily forget your problems--most of them are so funny and awesome), and I threw myself into the kids (so when MP woke up crying because she couldn't find her "red top"--which turned out to be the top to a bubble bath container, I.E. "garbage" she had reimagined as a toy, I simultaneously thought "you're CRYING about GARBAGE while my MOM IS SICK???" and "THANK GOD you are crying about garbage." 

Anyway, my father just became a US citizen after 43 years of living in this country, my brother is visiting my parents, and my mother seems to be doing a bit better. I sent flowers and chocolate and all of my love, and on Monday she'll go for a biopsy and hear the results late next week. So I'm learning to breathe again till then. And hoping against hope that those spots in her lungs are just bits of scar tissue from the pneumonia she's had. Thanks again for all of your lovin'--it reminds me why I still keep this here blog.

As for fresh starts, I'll be making one soon. My brother designs websites now, and he's offered to design mine for free with a new Internet address, the whole shebang. The new address will be www.gotcheek.com, but you'll be redirected there from here. I'm not sure when it will launch, but once it does I expect I'll be posting more and resurrecting my balls from the cold dark ground where I buried them two years ago with the closing of NO. I'm tired of censoring myself, of caring what other people think so much. My writing has suffered because I'm not blogging more, and I quit just as things were getting good for me. So I'm going to try a comeback. Heh. Such as it is.

In Other Stuff, MP is a freaking awesome big sister, Chloe is 5 months and still nursing, although we've added veggies, fruit, and rice cereal to her diet, since she's a voracious little thing. This has not affected how much she nurses, like the doctors said it would. She loves to eat. She loves to nurse the most, and I am obsessed with it and slightly maniacal now--the little huffing panting sound she makes when I get ready to nurse and she knows nummies are coming, the way she frantically sucks if she thinks I'm going to pull her off after a bit of inactivity, the way she clutches at my bra strap----melllllllllllllllttttt. MP is learning her letters--she can identify all of them--and she's loving and sweet and funny and so, so smart. And she has an incredible memory--if you say she can have a jellybean in a week if she's good she'll hold you to it all week long. I have to pinch myself every day--I am just so lucky in the kid department.

Thanks again for sticking around. I plan on getting back into the Blogworld, reading more, commenting again, all that good stuff, too--because there are some of you that I really, really miss. The break's been good for me but I need to come back.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. And thanks again for being here.

An Update I Wish I Wasn't Making

Today I found out that my mother is very sick. We've known for a few weeks now that something was wrong in her kidney--they found a tumor there. But it looked like the tumor was confined. Now they think it's spread, possibly to her lungs--there are spots there. This would be Stage Four kidney cancer, then. They've scheduled more tests, but the doctors apparently said (this from my dad, who couldn't stop crying) they don't even know if taking out the kidney will help at this stage.

I am, as you can probably guess, not doing well. My parents live far from me, and I'm trying to figure out when I should go, for how long, what to do about work, all that stuff. I need to suddenly be the adult here, be the one asking questions and holding everyone up, because they aren't doing well. I'm very close to my parents, and they are falling apart before my eyes, and it's the scariest, most terrifying thing I've ever seen in my entire life.

I've lived these past few weeks in a daze of kids and house and preparations for Christmas, not letting myself ask the question "what happens if." My brother just asked me that question. He said, "Karen, what's going to happen?"

I don't want to know the answer to that if this thing has, indeed, spread to her lungs.

I'll know more soon, because I couldn't get a lot from my dad. He was barely coherent, and then I suppose I asked too many questions, because he hung up on me.

And somehow I have to find it in me to be a mom--a functioning mom--around my kids. How do you hold up their world when your own is crumbling into pieces around you?

House of Ridiculousness

Many ridiculousities have been befalling the House of Cheek.

Recent Ridiculi:

Over the weekend, I very foolishly decided to paint Chloe's room a fetching dual shade of green (two walls medium green, two walls light green). I agonized over the shades, holding paint chips up to the items already in her room. I was NOT GOING TO MESS THIS UP, under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.

Past painting mishaps include:

1. The time I freehand painted the sink vanity in our old house's downstairs bathroom with eggplant swirlies, because I thought it would look cool. We had to replace the vanity because it looked so ridiculous.

2. The time I painted the small closet sized bathroom (same bathroom as above) a dark eggplant color--matte on the walls and gloss on the ceiling--but forgot which was which, so had some glossy streaks on my matte walls and some matte streaks on my glossy ceiling. The bathroom resembled a purple crypt until we repainted. But still, the eggplant paint poked through in hidden places. I will never live that down.

3. The time I stepped in some spilled paint and tracked it all over the floor. Thankfully, it was hardwood, so it scrubbed out.

Ah, the memories.

So anyway, bound and determined to do it right this time, I set up the room (dropcloths, yeah; move furniture, yeah; swipe aside curtain, yeah; tell 3 year olds to stay out, yeah). After yelling at MP about 79 million times to not touch various and sundry paint items, I helped her roller one wall and then pronounced it too difficult and messy--Stern Voiced Me: MOMMY HAS TO DO IT NOW. YOU MAKE TOO MUCH OF A MESS. GO PLAY.

Ten minutes later I was frantically calling to that same Messy Girl asking her to please go get her daddy, QUICK NOW NOW NOW, MOMMY DID A BOOBOO.

Somehow my foot got caught on the wooden stake thoughtlessly left in the paint (probably by my dog) and managed to tip over the entire gallon of paint on THE NEW CARPET.

Yeah! Go me!

Trying to clean it, as I soon found out, just spread it. Not a good idea.

We moved furniture that night, oh we moved furniture.

BUT! The fun don't stop there. While I was scrubbing away at the carpet, Random was mopping our basement of 2 inches of water. Why, you ask? Well, a certain husband of mine moved the washing machine to fix the dryer hose, unknowingly disconnecting the water pipe from the back of the washing machine. He then calmly turned on the washing machine and PRESTO! An ocean gathered in our basement. Old socks floated by on the current.

Our stupidity cancelled each other out that day.

Later that night, we decided to have a "date night." I'm sure you can guess what that is. It happens very rarely these days with a new baby and a still fat mom. Anyway, we began. It was great until Chloe started farting. (Yes, we are still cosleeping.) Somehow a baby's farts while you are trying to have a date night really, really doesn't do much for the mood.

Today I was informed that MP is walking around daycare lifting up her shirt and asking boys to drink milk from her boobies. Apparently this is a bad thing?!?

**************************************

We're all doing really well here. Chloe is 4 months now, and I'm still limping along with the nursing. The toughest thing is pumping enough. Some days I just don't get all that much, and I don't know why. Today I only got 8 ounces. Yesterday I got 11 ounces. That's a big difference. When I don't have to pump, there's more than enough milk. But I think my boobs are averse to feeding the pump.

And so I have to pump extra times at home. I am married to this thing. AND I HATE IT WITH A THOUSAND WHITE HOT HATES. I can't pump in the middle of the night, either. For some very odd reason I get NOTHING in the middle of the night, not even a drop. And yet if Chloe is hungry there is milk.

The doctor wants me to move Chloe into her own room now, but I hate that idea. Four months seems too young to sleep on her own. Who will obsessively check to see if she's breathing every hour?

Here are some recent pictures of the girls. Enjoy the deliciousness. And please cross your fingers that I get this painting finished with no further mishaps.

Chloe in her Rainforst Jumperoo.

 

No Sleep Till Ever

I'm back. For three minutes on the computer. That's all I can get these days. Hopefully things will ease up soon. Hopefully.

Work + baby + preschooler + at-home work + cleaning the house + interacting with my husband + endless appointments, responsibilities, etc = I have no time for me anymore. And "time for me" involves the computer. I take three hours on Sundays to do my lesson plans for the week and that's it. I'm in serious withdrawal.

Pumping at work is going okay. We're still exclusively breast feeding, and I'm pretty effing proud of that. Sometimes I manage to pump 14 ounces (yay!), sometimes only 9 ounces (stinko). I ordered domperidone from an online drugstore and it arrived in a scary package from Bangkok. Random is not pleased. I've been on it for a day and it seems to be working already--I leaked through four layers today (I had no breast pads, either) and gave everyone at Stop N' Shop a nice leaky boob show.

Other than busier than I ever thought a person could be, we are good. I am in so love with my girls.

Pictures and more soon. I promise.

My Pod Person Wrote This, Because the Real Me is Way Too Tired to Do Anything But Sleep

This week has been incredibly hard for a number of reasons.

Work is running me into the ground, By 4 pm I am so exhausted that I fall asleep on the couch amidst MP's yells of indignation--and I feel terrible, but I can't help it. Every moment from 4:30 am on is strictly regimented and leaves no room for anything unexpected; by the time 4 pm comes around I might as well be a zombie. So work is making me suck as MP's mom because all my energy is gone to the 125 other kids I'm responsible for.

And work is literally draining me. Yesterday I pumped an impressive 11.5 ounces in two sessions; today I had to pump twice as long for only 8 ounces. I hope that drop is temporary, because it doesn't do much for my Mama morale.

Finally, work is affecting my nursing relationship. Obviously Chloe gets two-three breastmilk bottles at daycare, which means 2-3 less feedings a day that I get with her. But it seems that instead of feeding more at home to make up for missed feedings, she's either A) feeding less or B) feeding about the same but fussing constantly. Tonight she cried from about 5 pm until ten minutes ago, which was 7:50. She fed, then spit up, then fussed, sometimes getting really angry, then refused me over and over, balling up her fists in fury. I almost lost it, but then there'd be three crying females in the house and I wanted to try to be the non-crier of reason. I tried not to take it personally. I failed. I almost feel like she's pissed at my boobs for not being there all the time for her, so she's taking it out on them by refusing to eat and allow them to calm her.

Ah, Chloe is crying again. So she was not crying for about ten minutes there. Hurrah! I suspect she has bad gas, and her spit up episodes are getting worse--today I'd estimate she spit up about 3-4 ounces total (on my work clothes before work, no less. And with my wardrobe so limited--I am still 10+ disgusting lbs over pregnancy weight--that's a can of suck right there). Those torrential geysery spit ups might also be why she gets so mad at my boob--it has nothing left and she's hungry again since she just spit up so much. So working has made our nursing relationship a lot more stressed for both of us.

It's no surprise, then, that my job is not my most favorite thing right now.

And for some reason I can't yet figure out, something inside me revolts at the idea of using formula. I think about it and get panicky and sick, like one bottle of formula would mean The End of Something Huge and Important. Even just thinking about supplementing with formula makes me want to throw up and curl in a small ball. I don't get why it's so freakishly giant to me, nursing, but there you go. I hate that my job has affected our breastfeeding relationship this way, I hate that my job makes me snappish with MP, who needs me so much right now, I hate that my job is cutting into time with Random--we haven't seen each other in four days, because by the time he gets home I'm asleep (around 8 pm. Yes, it's past my bedtime now).

I can't believe I'm saying this, but I yearn for the halcyon days where I was nursing 24/7 (I thought it was impossible and yearned for the time when Chloe would be quicker and more efficient; now I want to go back to where I made her feel good as opposed to angry). Those days where I was sequestered up in my bedroom, unable to do anything but feed my baby and hang with MP having "book picnics" in air-conditioned coolness. Now I'm dealing with a cranky, tired toddler, a crankier baby, and a truckload of work (lesson plans, anyone? Grading 125 papers? WOOHOO!) and almost no motivation or energy to do much once I leave work. Basically, all my good energy is going towards work. And it sucks. 

Anyway, onto the daycare shituation. We decided, after much thought, to stay with our current daycare. I read all of your replies and agreed with pretty much everything you said. But we do have a good relationship, and after talking with our provider I understood more about why they thought they couldn't do a great job with Chloe. They assured me that with the new person they hired they would be able to handle all of her needs. Plus: the new place would require me to get up twenty minutes earlier--thus, 4:10 am--and get both girls up twenty minutes earlier as well. MP is already impossible to awake at the ungodly hour of 6, and Chloe is equally reticent--the girl would now sleep 11 hours without eating overnight if she had her way. As it is I have to wake her up to get her to eat (and I hear your angry roars--how dare you wake a sleeping baby!--but really, she is sleeping from 8 am until 6 am with nary a peep, and then eats for ten minutes and crashes again, and although many of you probably hate me right now, that long stretch is not good for milk production--and if I'm still supposed to be feeding Chloe 7-8 times I day, I barely make it to 6 feedings unless I wake her at 5 am (she's somewhat restless then anyway). I try to feed her twice before leaving for work, and sometimes even feed her once I get to daycare; those are the best feedings we have. Except for when she pukes them all up, like she did today).

By Friday of that first week she was a calmer, happier baby at daycare, and they were figuring out how to zen her out, what she liked, and getting used to her. By Monday afternoon they were reluctantly handing her over, kissing her chubbo cheeks and extoling her baby virtues. So now she saves all of her pent up angst for me. Yeah! 

So. Anyone want to hire me to stay at home and freelance? I'm cheap, promise. 80K will get you as many blog entries as you want. Heh.

In much better news, tomorrow is MP's Adoption Day--our two-year anniversary. Two years ago we adopted the funniest, cutest, silliest, smartest, most wonderful little girl and I can't imagine having any other kid. She can be a handful (the twos have nothing on the threes) but she is such a sweet girl and is growing up to be so bright and funny I ache thinking that she might not have been ours if things had been different at any step of our long adoption journey. So I hope to finally publish her letter tomorrow, in honor of our 2-year family anniversary. To my just-potty trained (YEAH!), hysterical, smart, beautiful, helpful, wonderful big sister, I love you.