A Galaxy Of Stars

Dear Laney,

It's been a big media week for some people we know and love. First, your cousin Katie was chosen to be a Junior Meteorologist for the Macon, GA morning news. I didn't attach the video, but this is the point when Katie declared all of Georgia "Mostly Sunny," then looked into the camera and said, "Up your nose with a rubber hose, Montana!"

Then, your grandmother was interviewed by MSNBC about the nursing shortage (short version: There is one) -

Not to be outdone by those redheads, you began rehearsals for your new morning cooking show, True Grits. Here's a 15 second highlight:

Can't wait to see all you girls at the Emmys next year.

Love,

Mom

Household Sponge

Dear Laney,

NPR did a story last year on a group of child psychologists/researchers who had determined that children who make up stories or tell outright lies are displaying advanced intelligence. Well, move over, Stephen Hawking: there's a new genius on the loose.

Cedar calls her dad "Papa." I was giving you a bath the other night when you started telling me that "Cedar's papa taught me to lasso" and "Cedar's papa taught me to bounce." I have since confirmed with Cedar's papa that these things are false. Anyway, you were splashing away in your Crayola-tinted water telling me all about Cedar's papa, and you ended with this little tidbit:

I decided I could never show this footage to your dad or any of your grandfathers, because it would hurt their feelings to discover they weren't your "favorite guys." But I had to wonder where in the world you had gotten that phrase, and did you even know what you were saying?

Then tonight, I was reading you a book I bought last week called Two At The Zoo, when this page rang a bell:

There is nothing in this house that you don't absorb and repeat.

Speaking of that book, it's a source of great frustration for me. On each page, there's a little rhyme about an animal, and then it asks how many there are in the picture, as in, "Watch me, Lions! I can roar! / Growling, prowling. We count FOUR!" You know that one of the answers is NINE, and so you shout out NINE! on each page, figuring you'll be right at least 10% of the time. Last night, it went like this:

Mom: Okay, let's count the lions first.

Mom & Laney: One...Two...Three...Four!

Mom: So there are four? Holds up four fingers.

Laney: Yeah, four!

Mom: So when we ask how many, the answer is four. Ready?

Laney: Yeah!

Mom (reads): Growling, prowling, we count...?

Laney: NINE!

Mom: But we just talked about it and agreed THERE ARE FOUR!

Laney: Why you screaming?

I realize I make cracks about my mother's Type A behaviors on this blog all the time, and now I'm exhibiting the same behavior. We all become our parents in the end.

Hush.

Love,

Mom

Ten Two

Dear Hagen,

After your first few visits with Dr. Hoover, it was becoming apparent that you weren't gaining weight as fast as you should. You seemed stalled at 8 pounds, 6 ounces. In every other way, you were the picture of health (with extra credit for a charming personality), but you needed to add some heft.

We had this same problem with Laney when she was born. Back then, it caused me to lose a lot of sleep and shed a lot of tears. I was failing! My baby was starving! etc. etc. When you have two kids, you don't have the spare time required to wallow in self-doubt. Instead, I pretended you were Rocky Balboa and it was my job to prepare you to face off with that scary Russian dude in Rocky IV. I fed you raw eggs and made you jog in the snow. I mean, I fed you more.

Feeding you in general was stressful, because you'd spit everything up - and I mean everything. I'd do an extra load of clothes each day just thanks to this little quirk of yours. This never ever happened with your sister; she didn't get to be in the 99th percentile by kicking stuff back. After a week of experiments, we figured out that if we fed you while you were upright, and then kept you upright for half an hour and never ever touched your stomach, you could keep everything down. Your dad and I are getting smarter with each new baby. If we had the time, money, patience and inclination to have another 18 children, we might finally get it all figured out. We also might score our own series on TLC.

Where was I? Ah, right: Yesterday, I took you in to Dr. Hoover's to have you weighed, and you weighed 10 pounds, 2 ounces. You had gained exactly twice as much weight as we'd been hoping. So your dad and I took you out for pizza to celebrate.

What's the moral here? Well, if I had to pick a take-away lesson, it would be this: Give a Southern woman two weeks, and she can increase your body weight by 17%. I know. I've seen me do it.

Love,

Mom

Baby Barnibbe

Dear Young'uns,

As we all know, our friend The Other Brooke has been pregnant for years and we've all been anxiously awaiting the arrival of Cedar's new brother or sister. Last week, Hagen got to go with me to Brooke's baby shower. Sorry, big guy, but it's probably the last time you'll attend a party where the female-to-male ratio is 19:1.

Brooke and Todd are the kind of people who enjoy surprises, so they didn't want to know the gender of the baby in advance. Since I'm one of those people who has to poke, weigh and rattle every present under the Christmas tree until I can tell you what everyone's getting without removing the gift wrap, I don't think I could have gone this route.

On Wednesday afternoon, Todd called and said that Brooke had gone into labor, and wanted to know if we could come pick up Cedar. They were having a home birth with a midwife and thought Cedar might enjoy playing somewhere else during the process. Legend has it that when your dad went to get Cedar, Todd was making small talk with him in the front room while packing a bag for Cedar until Brooke screamed from the back, "TODD! THIS IS NOT THE TIME FOR CHATTING!" I love that story.

I made pizza for dinner, but Laney and Cedar climbed up on the counter and Laney - as spokesman for the group - announced: "We just want 'cados." I find it's good to confirm with Cedar that she's on board for this kind of decision, because it would be just like Laney to determine the menu without actually consulting anyone else. I asked Cedar if she was down with the idea of avocados, and she shrugged like, "Well, it's not the dumbest idea Laney's had all day."

The girls played upstairs for about half an hour, in which I tried to explain to Cedar that the process of making wine isn't as simple as it seems on paper...

...and then we got the call that Brooke had delivered a beautiful baby boy. That's right - exactly one hour after Cedar got here, it was time to go home and meet her new baby brother. They had a glorious new addition to their family in less time than it would have taken me to drive to Walmart and back.

No idea yet what they're going to name the youngster. Brooke told me once that in the state of Montana, you don't have to name your baby for a year. All I know is that it entertains me to no end to imagine what Peg Peg's reaction would have been, had I called her during my pregnancy and said, "Here the deal: We're not going to find out the gender in advance - because we love surprises! - and when he/she/it gets here, we're going to take our time choosing just the right name." I think the pressure in her brain might have caused her ears to bleed, like those people who contract the ebola virus.

So glad to meet the newest member of their family, and Hagen's first friend.

Love,

Mom

Thor's Baby

Dear Hagen,

Truth-telling time: When your dad first brought up the idea of having another child, I was hesitant (where "hesitant" = completely freaked out by the notion). I am an only child. My best friend is an only child. I don't know nothin' bout raisin' no second babies.

Obviously, I eventually agreed with him that we should have another child, but to make the whole idea seem more manageable, I would occasionally point to my pregnant belly and tell your dad, "This baby's yours." I was referring to all the middle-of-the-night feedings and diaper changes that I knew were on the way, but mostly I was joking.

Apparently, your dad thought I was serious. When Laney was a newborn, your dad had a full-time job, was a full-time student, and was writing his thesis. But now, he has all kinds of spare time on his hands to manage the business of taking care of a baby. And he's not just taking on the job, he's employee of the month.

If you need a bottle, he feeds you and burps you.

You take all of your baths with Dad.

And you two have spent a lot of time "watching" post-season football together.

The other night, I actually heard myself say, "Can I hold him?" as if you were a baby a stranger had brought to a party. If your dad had his own boobies, I might never see you.

Of course, if your dad had boobies, I would never have agreed to that first date, making all this baby-raising stuff a non-issue.

Love,

Mom

Blame It On The Bossa Nova

Dear Laney,

When I was four, I swore up and down to my mother and Aunt Robyn that I could roller skate. To hear me tell it, I was Peggy Fleming on eight wheels. Peg Peg and Robyn paid the admission and skate rental fees to watch me splat my butt up and down the length of Looney's Skating Rink. That is to say: I am no stranger to exaggerating one's abilities.

Your dad drove you to school this morning, and on the way, you told him you could see Tracy's house from the interstate. Your dad said, "You can't see it from here, pumpkin," and you assured him, "I can see it if I use my giraffe neck."

This afternoon, I intended to take you to the park, but when we got there, we discovered that it was covered with tons of snow, and we couldn't even hike out to the slide. I told you I was sorry and we'd have to try another time, and then you countered with, "I can make it caliente." How handy a skill that would be, if you weren't just confusing yourself with Dora.

You and Cedar went sledding outside her house last weekend:

As we finished our stack of bedtime stories tonight, and I was kissing you good-night, we had this conversation:

Mom: I'm sorry the park didn't work out today. Maybe we'll try a different park tomorrow.

Laney: Yeah.

Mom: Maybe we'll go to the one by Cedar's house. You like playing with Cedar, don't you?

Laney: She's my best friend (Awww...). We can hold hands (True!). We can go sledding togedder (True!). We can go on da swings (True!) We can do the samba (Lie! Stolen from this morning's "Diego"!)

On the one hand, it's possible that you and Cedar have been holding covert meetings to drink sangria and crank the Herb Alpert 45s. But more probably, your mouth is writing checks that your Latin dance abilities can't cash. Either way, congratulations on grasping the concept of self-promotion; you're two years ahead of schedule.

Love,

Mom

He So Coot

Dear Laney,

People have been asking me a lot lately what you think of your brother. First, it should be said that you refer to him as your "sister." I don't know if you're in denial, or if you think sister is a gender-neutral word. Either way, you've picked a story and you're sticking to it.

Also, you tend to adopt and repeat whatever you hear other people say about him. Since Peg Peg spent 2+ weeks at our house after his birth, this means you've spent a lot of time sounding like a middle-aged Southern woman. "Ooh, he such a sweet boy!" is a favorite. Also: "Look at all dat hay-ur," which as many of you know is how Alabamians pronounce "hair."

I've said it before, but your brother has been mostly silent since we brought him home. There is now an exception to the rule, which is an annoyed grunt that seems to be directed only at you. This could be because when you say, "Lemme hug da baby," what you really mean is, "Let me lay all 32 pounds of my body directly on top of this newborn." When you say, "I wanna touch da baby," you mean, "I want to stick my finger in his eye/nose/mouth." And when you say, "OK, I done now," it means you're about to push on his head to launch yourself off the bed. And as your dad and I are saying NO NO NO, Hagen is saying Eerrrrgggghhhhh.

Except for the fact that your brother probably thinks you're a rabid dingo, your relationship is off to a great start.

Love,

Mom

Sleddin' U.S.A.

Dear Laney & Hagen,

Yesterday, it snowed most of the morning and afternoon, so your dad decided it would be fun if we all went sledding. Grandma Sue got your dad a snow tube for Christmas, which is awesome. Not that I'm competitive or anything, but I got your dad a new baby, so I still win.

Hagen was skeptical of the sledding plan at first,

and thought our time, like the other 90% of his schedule, might best be spent napping.

But until you learn to talk, you don't get a vote in this house, so I put him in a bear suit, wrapped him up in a baby carrier, and zipped both of us into Uncle Nate's jacket. See, Uncle Nate is out of the fleece business these days, so he left it behind last time he was here. I call it the "My Brother-In-Law Went To Live In South Florida Where The Weather And Beaches Are Beautiful, The Food Is Great And The Shopping Is Even Better, and All I Got Is This Stupid Jacket" jacket.

Catchy, no?

As always, Laney and Dad had a great time playing around, although I have a new House Rule that says, "If I spend 35 minutes getting two children ready to play in the snow, we must actually remain outside for at least 35 minutes."

Here are the highlights of the afternoon. Anyone who has ever seen an episode of Diego will recognize Laney's verbatim recitation of how to save Dad from the snow tube.

I would like to report that Hagen's first winter sports outing with the family was a wild adventure, but he slept through the whole thing.

Me and the baby = on the same page.

Love,

Mom

Get Your Tequila For Nothin' And Your Cars For Free

Dear Laney,

I once walked to Tijuana. Brian and I parked in San Ysidro, CA and walked across the pedestrian bridge into Mexico. Immediately, we learned that things in Mexico don't have a set price like they do here in the States. Everything was for sale and everything was negotiable.

Thees many pesos for a round of tequila. No?

Ok, thees many. No?

Ok, everything's free for the laydeeez.

Our house these days is a lot like Tijuana, minus the authentic Mexican food and the smell of goat pee. Everything is a negotiation.

If you let me braid your hair, I'll give you a Tootsie Roll. No?

OK, two Tootsie Rolls. No?

Fine, a sucker.

This morning, I was a party to this conversation:

Laney: Mom, I want a car.

Mom: A WHAT?!?

Laney: A car. A blue one.

Mom: Go tell your dad you want a car and see what he says. (NOTE: This is my new strategy for stress-free parenting: outsourcing all the crazy to your dad).

Overheard from the bedroom:

Laney: Dad! I want a car.

Dad: A CAR?!?

Laney: Yeah. A blue one.

Dad: OK, Laney. I'll make you a deal. If you give up your pacifier today, I will buy you a jalopy when you turn 16.

Laney pops the pacifier out of her mouth and exchanges it for this napkin from Dad:

If I were you, I'd squirrel this napkin away somewhere safe and spring it on your dad 14 years from now. Of course, if I were you, I would have stayed in the negotiations long enough to also secure myself a case of Reposado and a quart-sized bag of miscellaneous prescription meds. Just like in the real Tijuana.

Love,

Mom

It's Not The Heat. It's The Humidity.

Dear Laney,

The phrase, "It's not the heat - it's the humidity," is used a lot to describe the heat in the South. While it's a cliche, it's also true; the sweaty, gnat-infested heat in south Georgia is completely different than the dry heat in Missoula. When it's 100+ degrees in Missoula, you find yourself saying, "Golly, it's warm." When it's 100+ degrees in Dooly County, Georgia, you find yourself saying, "I hope nobody messes with me today, 'cause I'll kill 'em soon as look at 'em."

When you come home with a newborn, everyone thinks you're going to be up all night because of the new addition to the family. They suspect you will be sleep-deprived because of the baby's all-night feedings and crying. But here's the real deal: It's not the newborn. It's the two year-old.

With the newborn, I find myself saying, "He hasn't eaten in 3 hours? I guess I should roll over and feed him." With the two year-old, I find myself shouting, "IT'S ONE O'CLOCK IN THE DAMN MORNING. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT'S HOLY, CAN I PLEASE WRITE YOU A CHECK FOR THE AMOUNT OF YOUR CHOICE TO GET BACK IN YOUR OWN BED?!?" You hop out of your bed upstairs at 1, 3 and 5am, and stomp downstairs all so you can wake me up and ask, "Where the baby go? How's the baby doing?"

It's like we're living with one of those night shift nurses who delight in waking up their patients to take a blood sample and ask, "Hey, how's it going?" With three professional nurses in our immediate family, this behavior should not be a surprise, but like the August heat in Georgia, it's exhausting.

Love,

Mom

A Short Lesson On Miracles

My dear offspring,

There are some kooks in this world who think the burn pattern on their morning toast resembles the face of Jesus, and they declare this a miracle. An ebay-ready miracle.

This is not a char-grilled miracle for a number of reasons. 1) Some snarky genius has actually invented the Daily Bread Toaster, which will toast Jesus' image right on your white or wheat every single morning.

and 2) I've recently learned that A REAL miracle is getting both of your children to sleep at the same time.

Glory glory!

In related semi-miraculous news, Laney insists on holding Hagen's hand every time we're in the car together, which seems just fine with him. When we're all together, there is no crying coming from the backseat.

Hallelujah!

Although water-into-wine is certainly a more marketable miracle, I'll take my little blessings wherever I can get 'em.

Love,

Mom

Bowl Full Of Baby

Dear Hagen,

Our friend Meghan stopped by earlier this week on her way to a photo shoot in San Salvador via Spokane. While she was here, she pulled out her costumes bucket, and took some sweet, funny pictures of you.

Peg was worried that if you grow up to be a linebacker for the NFL, ESPN will somehow get its hands on these photos and you'll make the Sport Center highlight reel. She likes to worry about ridiculous hypotheticals 20 years ahead of time, which is what makes her such an overachiever.

Love,

Mom

Bye Bye, Peg Peg & Tex

Dear Laney,

Your Florida grandparents left this morning after spending a little over two weeks with us here in the boonies. They were a HUGE help - most of all by heading up the Laney Activities Committee. The back half of that saying, "It takes a village..." should be, "...to drink gallons of imaginary tea, put together the same puzzle for the 800th time, make up songs about a cowgirl and her rocking moose, and watch untold hours of Diego," but that probably wouldn't fit so well on a bumper sticker.

They did get to hold your new brother on occasion,

but rest assured, their primary task was keeping you entertained. A few nights ago, you got out the dress-up clothes box that Grandma Sue got you for Christmas, put on as many items as possible, and forced Peg into a tea party. You're really into this crazy bridal veil that you call your "crown," and it has a funny-but-disturbing way of making you look like Miss Havisham as a toddler. Anyway, hilarity ensued:

We were sorry to see Peg Peg and Tex leave this morning. A new pile of dirty clothes has materialized in my bedroom, and I'm starting to suspect they're not going to wash themselves.

Love,

Mom

Remedial Cheer Camp

Dear Laney,

You were off to a great start by making up a "The Baby's Sweet!" cheer, but you seemed to lose focus there at the end:

It's like you started the game as a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader, and decided to finish by giving a shout-out to the Atlanta Braves.

Love,

Mom

Mr. Cellophane

Dear Hagen,

In the musical Chicago, the character Amos sings a song called "Mr. Cellophane," 'cause you can "walk right by me, and never know I'm there." Your dad and I joke that you're like the Invisible Baby, because you're happy to lie down anywhere and silently chill out.

Lately, when I set you down, I find myself having to make safety announcements like, "Attention! There IS a baby on the couch. Be careful when sitting down!" Or, "I just put the baby in the bouncy chair. Please don't walk into it!!"

I thought maybe I was being hyper-sensitive, but about two minutes ago, I tried to make up the bed with you in it.

Sorry.

Love,

Mom

BTUs ("Burbach Thermal Units")

Here's the difference between you and me, dear reader: You probably look at this picture and think, "Aww, what a sweet man enjoying a peaceful moment with his sleeping children."

I see it and think, "Woooo, that looks sweaty. I bet if I put a thermometer in Thor's armpit, it would read 280 degrees. Now, where did I leave my Co-cola?"

-Brooke

New Friends

Dear Hagen,

Earlier this week, our friends Brooke, Todd and Cedar came over to meet you. They gave us some great new-baby presents, including the beautiful photos below that Brooke took while she was here:

Cedar loved holding you, which is a good sign, since she's due to get her own new sibling any day now. If you should grow up and develop a "thing" for older women, we'll be able to trace it to the source:

Love,

Mom

cc: Missoula County Health Dept

Dear Laney,

Not for the first time, I am relieved that the local health dept has no jurisdiction over our house. In our kitchen, the sous chef is 28 months old, which I'm sure violates some kind of labor law. She leaves no utensil unlicked, insists on cracking her own eggs (with varying results) and is philosophically opposed to pants. All of her baked goods are made with a warm heart and a naked heinie.

I'm reminded of the interviewer who asked Paula Deen, "What do you say to critics who say it isn't sanitary for you to be licking spoons, etc. as you cook?" And she replied, "The show's called 'Paula's Home cooking.' It ain't called, 'Paula's Restaurant Cooking.'"

But I bet even Paula, who seems crazy as hell, has sense enough to wear pants.

Love,

Mom

A Tubful of Good Looking

Dear Hagen,

Last night, you took your first bath at home, with an assist from your dad. Like everything else that's been done to you since you were born, you thought this was just fine. I'm starting to think we didn't conceive you so much as order you out of a catalog.

Now that you're home, your sister considers herself the world's foremost Hagen expert. The people who you'd normally suspect of being intrusive or bossy - mothers, mothers -in-law, etc., have been absolutely delightful. It's the two year-old who lives upstairs who's telling me what to do every damn minute of the day. "He's poopy. Need new diaper." Or, "He crying 'cause he's hungry." Or the more piercing, "How's the baby doing?" which she asks me about once an hour to confirm that my answer matches her personal opinion.

Last night, Laney thought your bath experience might be more spa-like if she tossed in her new Mermaid Dora doll, various cups and bowls and some squirty toys.

I've got $10 on your first sentence being, "You're not the boss of me."

Love,

Mom

Same Bed, Two Years Apart