New Hairs

Calder was so bald for so long that I really resisted the idea of getting Wren's hair cut. I mean, I know that it was always in her face and that she insisted on ripping out any barrettes and that due to a grip of awesomely hereditary cowlicks, it defied any sort of style unless you count "directly stuck to the boogers coming out of her nose" to be a style. But still. Adorable baby curls!

Sooo fluffeh

Sometimes I would put her hair in those little whale spouts and that would keep the mess of bangs under control... for a time. Until she took a nap or wore a hat or just straight attempted to scalp herself. Besides, I've already lost most of those hair ties and unless Bruce can train his giant man-paws into some sort of nimble coiffing machines, it's not really a day to day kinda solution.

Shaggy baby

Fun fact: Bruce does not believe in paying $20 to get a kid's hair cut. This is why Calder's gotten the clippers the last few times. Second fun fact: I don't give a damn. I survived a childhood filled with awkward bowl cuts and couldn't do my own ponytails until the 4th grade. I'm in no position to be doling out hairstyles.Since I was paying (and I promised Bruce we could have lunch at the beer restaurant after), we went back to the same kiddie salon where Calder had his first go round in the chair. Or firetruck. whatever.

I don't know if it was the lack of a nap or what, but Wren was a docile lamb the entire time. She had a grand old time driving her police car and didn't fuss at all, even when she was getting her hair wet down.

Fun fact three: This stylist is awesome. She was wonderful with Wren and didn't even bother to up-sell me on their stuff. She did mention the Baby's First Haircut package they sell but then pointed up we had come with our own paparazzo (me).

Bang-a-rangs

So the whole time Wren was getting her hair cut, Calder was chillin' in the playroom. One of the other stylists went in to fetch another child that had been waiting for an empty seat and when she came out, she asked who the boy belonged to. Honestly, my fight or flight almost kicked in because my first fleeting though was "What has he done?" But no, she was only asking because Calder had informed her that he was waiting for his turn under the scissors. Uh, OK?

Perhaps it was the lure of the firetruck or maybe it was all the attention his sister was getting or maybe it was because it wasn't me doing it this time, but Calder had decided that he did in fact want a hair cut. Awesome stylist lady was more than happy to oblige and I got the impression that she had been itching to get her implements on his shaggy mullet since the moment we walked in.

Calder apparently likes getting his hair cut now. This time it took 100% fewer lollipops and almost zero cajoling to get him to sit still for it. We still had to reassure him that she'd leave the top long but other than that he offered no resistance. He was even excited for her to style it. He thought he looked "So cool!" after.

Cool? No, he looks OLD.

And as promised, when all kids were finished we all went out to lunch at the beer restaurant where Calder loudly informed everyone in our general vicinity that the hostess only had one arm and I died right there in my seat. I am actually writing this from beyond the grave which is a good thing because Fun Fact Four: Bruce hates bangs. He told me this later that evening. He thinks they look old and goofy. He is lucky I am dead because that is ground for a brutal scorning. Fun Fact Five: He is WRONG and bangs are cute and adorable and if he doesn't want his daughter to have bangs he needs to figure out how to make some lady hairstyles posthaste.

Wordless Wednesday: Chicago Children's Museum

Yesterday Bruce has some minor knee surgery so I got to ditch work early to take him there. Since the surgical office was downtown and we had to kill time until he was ready to be discharged, I took the kids to the nearby Chicago Children's Museum at Navy Pier. Fun-ness ensued.

Unclean Machine

Calder is only four so the concept of responsibility is somewhat foreign to him. Maybe I don't like picking up all the things anymore or maybe I just really like failure, but we've decided to plunge ahead and give Calder some light "chores" to do around the house anyways. I'm not talking about anything back breaking like scrubbing floors or washing windows. Mostly we are just asking to boy to pick up his toys when he is done with them and sometimes help empty out the wastebaskets when they need it.

For his part, Calder feels like this is the Worst. Thing. Ever. There is no faster way to get him to throw a great wobbly tantrum than to ask him to pick up his dirty laundry. Left to his own devices it would never ever happen. The mess in his room would gradually deepen until he was living ten inches away from the ceiling on a pile of filth and dried up Play-do. Lately Bruce and I have taken to making cleaning part and parcel of the time out process. You want out after those five minutes? Put your books back on the shelf. Now, I'm no cleaning fanatic. Anyone who's ever lived with me can attest to that. I loathe cleaning and can happily live the heaps of crap lifestyle but Calder's method of the same is not sustainable in the long term. Especially when it comes to toys and books. It'd be one thing if Calder could just go one living like a hobo with no repercussions for the things around him but the fact is that his disaster is destructive. His room is where possessions go to die. Toys are crushed, wet clothes get mildewy and books are crumpled or ripped. I am honestly tired of it. It kind of pisses me off to have put thought and money into the things I get for him and have him treat them like that. I've already gotten to the point that we are not replacing things that get ruined.

No shit, my mother says. Touche.

Calder isn't totally cleaning adverse. He's actually super helpful with the greater housekeeping activities such as garbage removal and he likes to swiffer things and sweep on occasion. He will put away his folded laundry without much too much push back. Calder even likes to help do the dishes by putting away his plates and cups. Calder's help can make cleaning the house fun. We're spending time together. He makes up stories about what we're doing and we play pretend. We bond. But then comes those times when he "cleans" his room and the battles start and I go totally bonkers as most of the junk gets pushed under his bed or shoved haphazardly onto random shelves. What bugs me the most about that is he will put more effort into not putting things away correctly than it would to do it the right way the first time. Oh, this marker? I will stick it here in with my Lego box, which is right next to the marker box. WHERE IT BELONGS. The mind. It boggles. I honestly do realize that Calder is still too young to be responsible for all maintenance on his own so on the weekends, I try to do a cooperative deep clean with him. I start off trying to motivate and organize and usually end up laying on the floor overcome with despair and boy funk while I watch him jam stuffed animals into his desk drawer and he pretends like I would never think of looking under his bed. Again. It frustrates me to no end and sometimes I get kind of shouty, which I like even less than messy rooms.

And so, like many parents, we have instituted the pick it up or lose it method of mess control. Calder gets lots of opportunities to put his things away and if he refuses, stuff gets packed up and away. Sometimes it just gets moved to the basement play area so I don't have to deal with it anymore (until I go down there) and sometimes it goes on a temporary hiatus until Calder can earn it back. So far he's lost about two small garbage bags of toys and earned nothing back. I'd say the amount he's missed his absent belongings is somewhere in the vicinity of zero. I am not even sure he's noticed one of them. If he asks about the stuff, I'd certainly give him the chance to earn the stuff back but so far, not a peep. And that's fine with me. We've got a small house and too much stuff anyways.

P.S. I realize this all makes me sound kind of horrible. I'm not a slave driver, I swear, but rounding up his junk is decidedly preferable to what would happen without it. Like ant infestations. And mold farms. And Wren having free access to markers and paints. God, not the paints. 

Wordless Wednesday: Wren's Wroom

To make up for the plain white walls, my mom bought Wren some sweet birdhouse decals for her birthday. I finally got around to putting them up along with the banner from her party. Other than the ugmofo window that still needs a curtain, it's almost a cute little nursery now. I still hate the white walls and wish I could paint them but that's what I get for being fiscally irresponsible and not being able to buy my own damn house. As the Cubs fans say, there's always next year.

Sorry the pictures are crap, it's a small room with no natural light. It is literally impossible to get back far enough to capture a whole wall in one photograph.

I Think Something is Happening

It's a little concerning when your child has barely four words in her vocabulary and then suddenly stops using one. In somewhat related news, over the last six days, I have nursed Wren exactly three times. And two of those were middle-of-the-night-go-back-to-bed-child sessions so it's pretty safe to say that she doesn't need me to feed her anymore. I guess this is how self weaning starts.

Nothing was really planned. I just came home from work one day last week and she didn't immediately run up to me and demand to be fed via a vigorous round of motorboating like she usually did. She I let it ride, thinking, OK, I'll get dinner made on time like a normal family and feed her before bed. But that didn't happen either. She went down fine, early even. And then the same thing happened the next day. And then the next.

She didn't ask. I didn't offer.

What Wren did ask for were bananas. Lots of bananas. All the bananas. They are, like, the new bestest thing ever. Sorry blueberries and cheese, you have been usurped. And nothing will stand between this girl and her fruit of choice. It may not be as easy as filching a carton of berries from the fridge but if Wren can't find a climbing chair handy enough to fetch her own, she stands in front of the butcher block where they are kept and shrieks "Na! Nana! NANANANANANANANA!" until someone who values their eardrums breaks down and gives her one.

In Wren's hands, the average banana lasts approximately six minutes. And then she'll turn right around and go after another if they haven't been placed out of reach. She's been eating enough bananas lately that I was getting legitimately concerned for her health and had to Google whether it was possible to get sick from a banana-induced potassium overdose (It is, but it take a lot of bananas. A LOT. Even more than she can eat. I think.)

Of  course after the third day of this BANANAS ARE AWESOME diet, my boobs were paining like crazy so it was somewhat of a relief when she woke up crabbing at o'dark thirty and I could nurse her back to sleep. And then it happened again the next night so I thought maybe I was going crazy and she was just on some sort of strike but then I tried to nurse her to sleep BEFORE bed tonight and failed miserably. Not only did she not want to sleep, she didn't want to eat. Well, not from me anyways. It looks like I might finally get to go real bra shopping soon. Unless I can find some way to get my boobs to make banana milk.

Wordless Wednesday: Dumbest Tutorial EVER

This craft tutorial is so dumb and so unnecessary that it doesn't even require words.

And Baby Says

Not much really. While Calder seems to have the vocabulary of a fourth grader, Wren is pretty much stuck on mama, dada, bpp bpps (boobs) and NA! (no). I think she might also be saying nana for banana but she could just be emphatically disagreeing with me. I know Wren understands a lot of what we say because she has started shaking her head yes and no when we ask her questions and will follow simple directions like "put the ball in the box" or "throw that paper in the garbage can" or "please give mommy her phone back so she can pretend to have friends." Just kidding, she doesn't listen to that last one at all. Wren may have a very tenuous grasp on the English language but she is very determined to become a social media maven.

Wren may not be picking up on people talk, she's certainly absorbing the language of the ones she really would like to communicate with, the animals. Her animal sounds may not be the most accurate but they are certainly the most adorable. Cows say "muh muh", ducks "gwak gwak" and all other birds go "bakbak" and she can do passable sheep, horse, elephant and a very good dino/lion/bear/anythingwithpointyteeth roar but my favorite is her dog. According to Wren, dogs say (very, very quietly), "woo woo." It's almost a whisper and it's hilarious because my dumbass canine is the furthest thing from quiet there is. I mean, he loses his mind every time someone comes to the door. Even if it's someone he knows. EVEN IF IT'S SOMEONE WHO LIVES THERE. There is no sneaking into my home, burglars. Take note. Oddly, the one animal she hears the most in real life, the cat, is one of the few imitations that eludes her. Perhaps it's because when we do it we say "meow" and and Molson does it he goes "Mrrralghahahraaaaaaaowmrrrrrrlllm." I suppose I understand her confusion. We should start differentiating for her to make it less difficult. What does a (normal) kitty say? Meow. What does a semi brain damaged Siamese with neediness issues say? MRRRRRAAAAOOOWGHHJLHLGLGLG. I suppose she could be trying to imitate our cat and we have just been mistaking it for an extremely rough poo session.

Someday I will get this on camera. Swearies, just as soon as Wren stops grabbing my phone away from me to call Gramma and complain about how mean we are being. At least I assume that's what she wants to do. It's not like she knows that many people. Or perhaps she has a secret Twitter account. WAIT, IS MY DAUGHTER HONEST TODDLER?! You all would tell me, right?

Hello, Tampax, My Old Friend

WARNING: TMI. NO REALLY, I MEAN IT. JUST STOP NOW THIS IS ENTIRELY FOR MY OWN EDIFICATION.


It seems odd to me that whilst pregnant, discussing the current state of my uterus, cervix, and other various and sundry ladybits is tooootally normal but once I've pooped that kid out, no more bodily overshare for me. Unless it's boobs. There will always be talk of my boobs. They're just kind of here. ALL THE TIME. Apparently, my ute was not having it anymore. Tired of playing second fiddle to my milkers, it wanted my full attention once again. So here's  an unsolicited uterine update: Totes pissed, yo.

What I am trying to say, is that after some odd 22 months, it came back. My period. Aunt Flow with the Red Hair. Shark week. It's here, it smears, just deal with it. Logically I knew it was going to happen eventually. I am down to breastfeeding Wren only once a day but I was kinda hoping that staying on the mini pill until I ran out of them would stave it off another few months. Hey, I paid for those bad boys, I ain't tossing them just because they aren't technically necessary anymore. So suffice it to say, not expected. At all. On the bright side, I wasn't so caught off guard that I didn't have supplies in the house. In fact, I am quite well stocked having just bought my I Ain't Ashamed of My Body, Young Checkout Boy-sized box shortly before my last positive pee test. However, remembering how to use that shit is a whole different story. This past week has been, well, interesting and laundry-ful to say the least. It's like it's junior high and I am going swimming at Leia G's house all over again. You want me to put what where? And for how long? OMG I AM DYING OF TSS! Oh wait, that's just barbeque sauce on my pant leg.

And of course the action all started while I am in the middle of a pack of pills so I have no idea what's going to happen with this. Will I have it again in two weeks? Will I bleed for fours weeks straight? (If so, kill me now.) Will I ever remember how to properly deal with my own ladybusiness?

At least I have something I can blame this unexpected five pound weight gain on. My period bloating. Yes, bloating, Sooo not the three pounds of mayonnaised goodness I ate over the Fourth of July holiday.

I Made This!

Since my lil' sis is due any minute now, I had to ship her the pump plus a Boppy gym Bruce had found at the thrift store. Tucked into that huuuuuuuuge box was a special surprise for her.

Bunny love.

Growing up all my sister's plush besties were bunnies so I thought it would be fitting for her daughter to have her own. I had a pattern laying around that my mom had given me way back when Calder was an infant and wanted to put it to good use. I've never made a plush before so my technical skills, whilst vastly improving, are not the best and my crap thread kept breaking so the face shape fell apart. I also totally omitted the hand sewing details because a blank face was preferable to a haunting me in my dreams face. Also, because of the shite thread, there is an 80% chance this will dissolve the first time it gets stuck in the washing machine so I'd suggest it be kept away from the baby.

Source Material

Since I am bragging about my mad sewing skillz (the Z means I'm lying), Here's a better shot of the dress I made for Wren. Once again, it's a pattern I jacked from my mom's house and it's so old as to be for reals vintage. It says copyright 1979, making it even older than me, if just barely.

Can you dig it?

The best part of using old patterns? It's been used to the pieces are already cut out which is my least favorite part of the whole process. My favorite part? Seeing my daughter look totally adorbs in something I crafted just for her. I like the pattern so much (no zippers! no bias tape! my machine makes button holes for me!) that I actually bought two different fabrics and plan to knock out another one as soon as I get the chance.

Fashion modeling career starts now.

After the bunny and the dress, I suppose Calder should be next on my projects list I just don't know what to make him. I suppose I could curtain his room or something, there just doesn't seem like there are ever enough sewing projects for boys.

Wordless Wednesday: MOAR BEACH AND MUSEUM

I realize that this is a ton of pictures but it is much more preferable than me trying to be funny again.